Have you ever been trapped in the bathroom stall at Target for fifteen-plus minutes with a sudden attack of, shall we say, illness? That itself is mortifying enough -- but imagine that your two young daughters, who are in the bathroom antechamber with strict orders to "share that iPad nicely, do not bicker even once or else, and for God's sake do not sit on the floor" spend the entire time not merely bickering but shrieking and slapping and crying -- and there's not a damn thing you can do since you can't move.
It's a lovely experience, and I'm sure the ladies who flitted in and out of the stalls around us were grateful for the tandem performances. It's also my new go-to anecdote for illustrating that when I fish for parenting sympathy, it's generally not because of Leo.
And an eerie coda: When you walk out of our Target bathroom, you are immediately surrounded by Gatorade, water, and a row of snack foods. I think they've micro-planned their store layout a little too well.