We weren’t more than a few steps out of the store when a red sedan pulled up and its passenger window went down. More tired, more broken and weaker than ever, I tried to hustle my son to our car so that I could have my emotional breakdown in private, but when you’re dealing with a toddler, everything takes longer than you would like. After signing the receipt, I grabbed my purchases, took my son’s hand as he clutched that giant white (well, white-ish) teddy bear and shuffled out of the store. I turned back to the clerk and handed her my credit card. “Thank you,” I responded, surrendering myself to something outside of myself, something bigger than my own fragile emotions. Why did the universe seem to be so against me? Why was everything so freaking hard? What had I done to deserve any of this-the criticism, the miscarriages, the infertility problems, the financial setbacks, the loneliness, the cruelty of strangers? What had I done to deserve this judgment and harsh criticism? What had I done to deserve getting berated by a stranger when I was merely trying to buy a pair of mittens? “I would never have let my kids drag a teddy bear around the store,” she retorted. “Perhaps then you might understand just how hard it is,” I squeaked in a mouse-like voice. I took a breath, summoned every ounce of peaceful strength I could find, and turned to this silver-haired prune of a woman. And I wanted to curl up in a ball and sob. The fighter in me instantly came to life. Rage-pure, unadulterated rage-boiled up inside me. Her litany of callous advice went on and on. She continued to tell him how I should have known better, how I should have done better, how I should have been better.
I looked around and quickly realized that the acerbic voice was coming from a woman behind me. As I was pulling out my wallet and trying to keep my grabby-hands son from making any more unintended purchases, I heard a voice nearby chide, “That’s what you get.” Or in this case, you dirty it, you buy it. The kind checkout clerk said I didn’t need to buy the bear, but I insisted. I did not want my son to think that he could get whatever he wanted, and I did not want this beastly teddy bear taking up more space in our already cramped home. “Twenty dollars,” responded the young woman. I let out an audible groan and meekly asked the clerk how much the bear cost, knowing that because we had ruined it, we would now be buying it. But when I picked it up, I realized that its round bottom was now a dingy black. I set the mittens and hat on the counter and gently pried the bear from my son’s tiny hands so that I could give it to the clerk, politely telling her that we had changed our mind about the bear. I confidently strode up to the checkout aisle, patting myself on the back for our quick tantrum-free shopping excursion. We made our way to the front of the store to pay for our purchases, all the while my son proudly and gleefully carrying that damn white teddy bear behind him. My son grabbed one of the bears and we headed to the back of the store, where I quickly found a cute pair of red fleece mittens in just the right size along with a matching hat. With careful planning and clever psychological maneuvering, I rationalized that I could save the tantrum for our exit from the store and not our entry. “OK, fine,” I said, reasoning that I would just let him carry the bear around the store for a few minutes while I searched for the aforementioned mittens, and then we would place it back on the shelf. I was tired, I was broken, and I was weak. Having just suffered my third miscarriage in six months, I was angry at just about everyone and everything-angry at the bad luck, angry at the horrible circumstances, angry at my body, angry at God and whatever or whomever was responsible for this wretchedness. I was tired, I was weary, and I was broken-spirit-broken and heartbroken. I had grown weary from the constant daily strain of it all. It was the fall of 2008, and like every other American, our family was feeling the crushing weight of financial stress and job insecurities. “We are just here to get you new mittens.”īut my son was relentless, like most 3-year-olds are, and I was tired. “Honey, we aren’t getting a teddy bear today,” I feebly replied to his pleas. It was at least as big as my 2-year-old son so, naturally, he just had to have it. Sitting front and center inside the doors of Old Navy, it proudly flaunted its blue scarf and beckoned to be cuddled. That damn teddy bear nearly ruined my morning.
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