It all starts at the parking garage. Daddy parks the minivan; Mommy pulls you out of the car seat and plops you in the stroller. They make a note of which floor you’re on and head toward the elevator. On the street, Nordstrom and Macy’s loom large and menacing. You start to fidget. You vaguely remember last time. I could be here all day, you think. There are more than ninety shops — Victoria’s Secret, Banana Republic, Express. Baby Gap is a bright spot, but not that bright. Mommy wheels you over to a store. Daddy holds the door open. Whoosh — air-conditioning makes the heat on your skin evaporate. Why do they keep calling this place Pottery Barn? There’s no barn here. There’s no pottery. You try to tell them this, when you notice they’re busy — busy making the noises they usually reserve for you at some other guy strapped in his stroller. You start to cry, and then you scream, “I wanna go home!” But they don’t listen. They just keep on strolling and strolling.