sure, there's a recall on the crib. but can we get a recall on the store?

babies r us is a frenemie. sure, it’s a place full of options and cute-as-all-get-out wearings for wee ones. full of darling baby sets and diaper genies (diviiiine!). but all the baby wipes and bibs in the world could never make up for the craziness that is that nightmare of a store.

yes, i’m single. and yes, when I have described my issues with this “fremenship” with others, some think it’s me just not understanding the world that is having a child (i get this a lot. especially since turning 30). yet, i have other friends with kids that agree wholeheartedly. the place is a wreck.

frequently it is required of me (through relation and/or friendship) to visit this box store of horrors. i do it out of love. i do it because i know the selection is vast and i’m a girl who loves, no, craves options when it comes to gift-giving. and i like it for the first 2 seconds. maybe even 5 if i’m really looking forward to knocking off a registry item. but no matter how long it takes, i end up feeling depleted and set afire with annoyance—begging to be let off the island.

a typical visit:

-park ¼ mile away to avoid denting from minivan door (which always park crooked—good god, why?). this is also preferable as to avoid the angry toddler throwing his baby croc out in the middle of traffic because his mom didn’t buy him a candy.

-decide if a cart is/is not needed. if it is, father/son/holy-ghost it to prepare for the scarcity of those actually on hand.

-if needed, print out registry (note here that in many cases it’s easier to just ask the parents what they need—unless you know ancient greek and stenography)

-begin search for your items. this involves peering up to see a wall of pacifiers (at least 50 types to choose from) and entire store fixtures of bottles. at some point, your eyes start to twitch and you decide to just coin flip. that’s what gift receipts are for.

-about now, in the store less than 5 minutes, you’ve already encountered the following:

couples registering for so much stuff the “gun” stops working. but not before you go tone deaf from the beeping.

toddlers being dragged around while their parents car seat shop: “this one doesn’t have 4 cupholders, it’s not making the cut.”

lost child begins screaming and they announce over the loud speaker for their parents to come pick them up in aisle 5. angrily.

judging parents eyeing each other, preening their parental feathers as they stuff their carts with organic onesies and cloth diapers.

once you find your purchase, you head up to the register. a sort of relief sets in that you’ve made it. you’ve gotten in, grabbed your items and are on your way to enjoying the rest of your day. and then you see it. the line. baskets forming a backup as long as the 405—none of which containing less items than a restaurateur getting a month’s supply of food at costco.

if it were any other store, you’d say fuck it. i’m done. this is what the internet is for. but you stay. you stay because the store owes you that much after the hell it put you through. you’ll finish even if you die trying.

and as you stand there with 3, maybe on a big day, 5 items, you start to assess. would it be so difficult to open up one more register? bring your total from 1 to 2? how about having an express checkout. hell, even staples does that. or better yet, have a line for the innocents. the ones who come to the store to buy gifts for loved ones, even against their better judgment. who can’t wait to see their friend/sister/coworker open up the gift. maybe treat these people especially nice because they’re do-gooders getting caught in a red zone. they’re not returning items. they’re not waiting until they get to the register to realize they forgot to buy timmy a new container of gerber graduates, telling the cashier they’ll just run and get it really fast because they’re in a hurry. you know who else is in a hurry? you guessed it. and this 20 minutes in line…i’m never getting it back. ever.

and finally you are freed. a little poorer, a little more tired and a little lighter thanks to the caloric burnoff resulting from walking the 1/2 mile roundtrip to/from the car. after all this you vow never to return. you pledge to find another way. you'll help out a smaller business. you'll order online. you'll just buy the parents a six-pack and call it a day. yet you find yourself back there every time. every time going through the same thing. ending the same way.

damn onesies.