"You Barf On It, You Buy It."

So, I had to run into the Gap to return a shirt that I had bought for Mr. Pigs that did not meet with his standards. (Standards being: blue.) I had dared to purchase a shirt in the rowdy, promiscuous colors of brown and green. (Gasp!) Grabbing my shopping bag, I scooped up Piglet and darted into the outlet store. No need for a stroller or a diaper bag, I was just going to be in and out, lickety split. Snap, snap!

I entered the store and felt my eyes glaze over. No matter where I am, it's difficult for me to simply make a return. There's always a possibility of a sale or a steal or a Real Find to be had. Deciding on a quick, innocuous spin around the store, I headed for the nearest rack. I expertly covered the shorts, the pajamas, the baby clothes, and the accessories rack before spotting a possibility: a rack of brown shirts marked $6.99. I dashed, I darted, I snatched up that brown shirt. [Note: I have a disproportionate amount of brown shirts in my wardrobe, so many that I am now trying to cut back.]

After a moment's admiration and a kicky little skip over the price tag, I decided to carry it around with me to see if it still tickled my fancy at the end of my mini-spree. Sadly, I did not have the opportunity for that time to pass. Why, you ask? Because Piglet chose that moment, after six weeks of vomit free days, to spit-up hurl all over the aforementioned brown shirt. HURL. There is a point at which spit-up ceases to be the sweet, innocent, milky baby leak that it once was, and we have apparently, reached, surpassed, and exceeded that point because my child - my cute, flaxen-alfalfa-haired Piglet - had just flat out retched all over this very debatable brown shirt.

Not just any run of the mill puke, no no! Avocados and yogurt made up a large part of his lunch that day and I'm gonna tell you something: Yogurt that has festered in the stomach for an hour or so does not smell good. Sweet, giggly little gap-toothed Piglet had just created and shared a green gunky funk that was quickly fogging women's section of the Gap. Clearly, I was now purchasing a mediocre brown shirt for $6.99. I hastened to the register, my nose curling in revulsion, my hand wet with warm, chunky green puke, my pride buried under a piece of avocado threatening to drip off of the neckline of my pending purchase.

I had no wipes, no Kleenex, no choices. I sidled up in line to a woman with a stroller and conjured my most pathetic expression. She took one look at me and started yanking fistfuls of wipes from beneath her stroller. I don't know who she was, but someone owes her a big 'ol piece of karma. I wiped myself and my return sack off as best I could and tried to look as though I had no idea where that smell was coming from. At last, it was my turn to pay.

The young faced teenager stared at me in horror as I tried to explain my predicament. She had clearly never seen vomit before, at least not in this line of work. Wiping chunks of bright green essence off of the shopping bag I passed it to her and told her proudly that I'd managed to keep the vomit off of the shirt I was returning. "No such luck for this one, though!" I laughed gaily as I held up the brown-splattered-green shirt. She was not amused. I passed her the price tag to help her avoid contact with our foul green wonderland. The Gap is usually quite stingy with their hangers, but this time? She held open a massive bag and allowed me to drop my purchase inside, hanger and all. Bonus!

I gathered my pride picked up my bag and slunk out the door, not to be seen again in the Gap for some time. Lesson? Always take the stroller, no matter how quick you think the errand might be. Always.