Maxitize

A couple of weeks ago, Vaughn’s school sent out a list of items he would require for his first day of school. Among the multitude of things was one bottle of hand sanitizer. (I know...my how things have changed in our now very health conscious society. Still doesn't stop Vaughn from contracting his contagion-of-the-month.) Now, the check list didn't specify a size. In looking at my multiple options at Target, 8 oz generic, 16 oz generic, 32 oz and finally the mother load of hand sanitizer, the 42 ouncer, (being very economically minded) I chose the largest option possible, heaving the hefty bottle off the top shelf, nearly crushing my petite self in the process. Evidently, Target applies inverse marketing strategy: Put the cheapest (and quite often largest) items on the top shelf rather than the bottom. I guess the general logic is rather than risking a shopper actually spotting the cheaper item on the bottom shelf whilst gazing down at their attendant offspring, “Let's just put that bugger in plain view,” on the top shelf, thus discouraging said shopper (who is typically too worn out or just too lazy) from risking a hernia hauling the precariously positioned bargain bottle off its ledge.

It wasn't just sheer economics that caused me to make this choice. Being the savvy back-to-school shopper now of a first grader, I recalled that last year the hand sanitizer was community property, so I felt good about not just saving a penny or two but also contributing to those less fortunate than I by perhaps making up for those children whose parents might not have the wherewithal to provide their needy babes with germ protection. That, and I felt Vaughn probably used more than his fair share, given his propensity for picking his nose.

I didn't give the matter a second thought until I arrived at the checkout and the cashier grunted as she heaved the bottle across the scanner, "That's the biggest bottle of hand sanitizer I've every seen!" Call me a community sanitizer. Hey, it's not an easy job.

Two weeks later, as I'm settling Vaughn into his desk on his first day of school, I look around at his fellow classmates' desks with their supplies piled on top, and I notice all these cute little 8 ounce bottles of Purell that, I am now starting to estimate, fit neatly into their individual desks. How very capitalistic. My eyes then rest on Vaughn's "community property" hand soap and realize that that motherlover is never going to fit inside his desk, not without forfeiting space for all his other educational needs. I feel my stomach clench, and then think in true slacker mom fashion, "Screw it. It's the teacher's problem now," and don't give it another worry.

A blissful 6-1/2 hours later, I engage in the timeless motherly tradition of afterschool debriefing. I don't know why I do it. It must be some hormone that is excreted after you give birth. My mother did it to me, and I hated it, and it never yielded any fruit for her either. After asking the perfunctory questions and receiving the perfunctory "I don't remember,"s from my senior citizen/grade-schooler, I give up and release Vaughn to his own devices. A couple of hours later, he corners me in the family room, a.k.a., the bathroom (and no, I was not on the throne and I was fully clothed—this time at least), having recalled a significant detail from his school day:

"Mommy...I had the BIGGEST HAND CLEANER BOTTLE IN THE CLASS!"

That's my boy!