Teresa Strasser by Teresa Strasser

The last place you want to find yourself is slumped down in the underpants section at Target clutching the last packet of Spider-Man big boy pants, head in hands, purse soaked in pee.

Among other things, you feel like the living embodiment of a haggard toddler-mom cliche, saying or thinking such timeworn gems as, "After everything I do for you, this is how you act?" or "I don't ask for much; just pee in the potty."

Far be it from me, a serial bed-wetter from way back, to shame a kid for peeing. And farther be it from me to bore you with the details of a 2-year old and his urinary mall malfunction. But perhaps you, too, have been that sad, frustrated parent you once looked at with pity, that person slouched on the floor of Target with a stroller saturated in pee, not to mention a kid, not to mention your wallet, which had been in your purse, which had been resting innocently beneath your stroller, right under your peeing toddler.

On a good day, I fully embrace and comprehend that he is doing great with his potty training, that as a parent, I won't even remember much about this phase, that it's not a big deal to buy some new Target clothes, change him in the bathroom and continue with our day.

However, a confluence of expectations conspires to bring me down — right down to the industrial carpet.

I expected to shove all of my work aside for an entire weekday to experience the full majesty of motherhood, without any of the stress or strain of impending deadlines, emails not answered, calls not returned. I expected to be perfectly patient, with a lighthearted sense of humor and perspective about all things. I expected him to have an adult-like respect for "our special day" together, and to find it similarly exalted. I expected him to have the pee skill set of an older kid — to willingly interrupt the joyful kicking around of a plastic ball to tell his mother of an impending bladder need, to shut down all fun to march to some fluorescent-lit bathroom, to bum out his own festivities.

But at Target, he is antsy.

He is wet and annoyed and cooped up inside looking for replacement clothes — and so am I. While I usually like to give him lots of room to be an exuberant toddler on his "mommy and me" days, days that are just his, days when he isn't locked away at day care, I can't this time because there are things to do and things to clean, and I can't have him tearing away from me. So I have to use my harsh parent tone.

My harsh parent tone, particularly when spoken at a mall Target in midday on a Thursday afternoon, particularly when spoken to a kid who is only there because of a very predictable and very normal and very accidental ... accident, makes me feel terrible.

So, as I carry the kid in the checkout line (to prevent him from sitting in his soaked stroller), I ask the universe or the powers that be to lift this heavy feeling so I can go back to being fun mom.

Let's face it, when I'm fun mom, running after him at the indoor playground, jumping off of giant foam apple slices and pretending to sleep next to him on the huge foam bed, I can almost sense how awesome I must seem to the parents looking at their phones, zoning out, sitting on the cushy benches. I'm not being fun mom for them, but don't think I don't enjoy thinking how fun I must seem.

Everything is a phase, the universe whispers to me, as the lady in front of me purchases her plastic hangers at a glacial pace and I pray that she doesn't elect to sign up for the Target card to save 10 percent. It's all fluid. Sad mom, fun mom. It's all fluid.

Teresa Strasser is an Emmy-winning television writer, a two-time Los Angeles Press Club Columnist of the Year and a multimedia personality. She is the author of a new book, "Exploiting My Baby," the rights to which have been optioned by Sony Pictures. To find out more about Teresa Strasser and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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