I’ve crossed over to the other side.
I used to be one of those people. Blissfully ignorant. Perhaps even a little disdainful. Of what it is to be a parent. Of what it takes to negotiate the world while also negotiating the needs of a small child.
I feel the difference between us strongest when clothes shopping.
The store is a gauntlet. I must move fast, judge quickly, grab lots of stuff (What size am I??? How do you wear this stuff? What is the fashion now? Why does it all look so small?) for the few minutes I have while the boy is chill. I try to juggle mound of clothes and poor steering on snap-and-go (Why, oh why, can’t that thing be maneuvered with one hand?) wondering why the heck the various salesgirls around the store have not bothered to ask me if I need a room. Finally, I interrupt the reverie of one and ask for help. She takes the heavy pile off my arm.
I finish my recon and head to the back. The salesgirls put me in a large dressing room “for the baby.” Nice. But the room is very far away from the nook where they hang out and fold things. And they don’t come back. I’ve got Jonah laying on a blanket on the floor. He’s rocking out to the music in that way he does even when there’s none — legs pumping, arms waving, as if he’s always dancing to “76 Trombones” from The Music Man.
I need these pants in a different size. I stand in the dressing room doorway — I’m not going to leave the boy in here alone — and wave down another shopper leaving her room, “Please, can you help me get a salesgirl?”
Finally, I get the help, try on the clothes, select four items — two tops, two pairs of pants, worry briefly that these clothes may not fit for long as who knows if this body is my final body but I am sick of wearing my maternity clothes and having them fall off, especially the pants.
(Yes, savvy readers, this is my second post-pregnancy shopping trip, but I didn’t worry as much on the first go-round. Maybe because with this trip, I’m really committing to this muffin-top belly. I do also have a few old pants that still fit; the ones that had a little stretch in them.)
Just as I am bringing my purchases to the register, Jonah registers his loss of interest in our activities. He starts to cry.
The cashier takes my clothes, starts ringing them up. She’s thin, long limbed, big eyed, dewy skinned. She tells me about some “card” I can sign up for that will track my purchases and give me free shipping on orders from the store’s website.
The boy is still crying.
No, I tell her. I can’t handle it right now.
Oh, it doesn’t take any time at all to sign up.
Who am I to turn down free shipping? Okay.
She hands me the form.
The boy is still crying.
Little squares swim in front of my eyes. I get the letters of my first and last names inserted, and then I see the rest of the lines: address, phone, date of birth. I can’t do it. Too many letters and numbers. Too much work. Brain not functioning while boy cries. It should have been so simple. But, I give up. Leave form on counter. Take my purchases and leave.
Return to car. Parking ticket. Of course. I couldn’t possibly do all that and keep track of the time, could I? And how would I have gone back out in the middle to feed the meter anyway? Sigh.
I put the snap-and-go in the trunk, get the baby bucket with crying boy into the car, diaper bag is still on the sidewalk, car doors akimbo. I can’t drive home with him crying like this. I take him out of bucket, insert pacifier for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes, turn him on his side, facing my chest, hug him tight and jiggle. He starts to relax against me. Crying subsides. I step out onto the sidewalk to retrieve diaper bag with one free hand.
The woman in the car behind mine is trying to signal something to me as she pulls out of her parking space. I’m looking on the ground all around me. Checking my butt to see if something is hanging out What? What?
She gives up, drives away.
Finally, I see it. Car keys are still in the trunk lock. I may have figured that out on my own, eventually.
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