When a Chance Encounter Restores Your Faith in Humanity

When a Chance Encounter Restores Your Faith in Humanity

That damn teddy bear nearly ruined my morning. Sitting front and center inside the doors of Old Navy, it proudly flaunted its blue scarf and beckoned to be cuddled. It was at least as big as my two-year-old son so, naturally, he just had to have it.

“Honey, we aren’t getting a teddy bear today,” I feebly replied to his pleas. “We are just here to get you new mittens.”

But my son was relentless, like most two-year-olds are, and I was tired. I was so very tired. Not just bone-tired, but soul-tired. It was the fall of 2008 and, like every other American, our family was feeling the crushing weight of financial stress and job insecurities. I had grown weary from the constant daily strain of it all.

I was tired, I was weary, and I was broken. Spirit-broken and heart-broken. 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 whoever was responsible for this wretchedness.

I was tired, I was broken, and I was weak.

So I caved.

“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. 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.

My son grabbed one of the bears and we headed to the back of the store, where I quickly found a cute pair of fleece, red mittens in just the right size along with a matching hat. 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.

Mittens

I confidently strode up to the checkout aisle, patting myself on the back for our quick tantrum-free shopping excursion. 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. But when I picked it up, its round bottom was now a dingy black, evidence of the dirt and grime that lies on Old Navy’s floors.

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.

“Twenty dollars,” responded the young woman.

I let out another, louder groan. Goddamit! I did not want to spend twenty dollars. 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.

“OK,” I sighed. “I guess we’ll be buying that as well.”

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.”

I looked around and quickly realized that the acerbic voice was coming from the shriveled, elderly woman behind me. And the voice wasn’t stopping. She continued to tell him how I should have known better, how I should have done better, how I should have been better. Her litany of callous advice went on and on.

Rage -- pure, unadulterated rage -- boiled up inside me. The fighter in me instantly came to life. I wanted to scream. I wanted to slap her. And I wanted to curl up in a ball and sob.

I took a breath, summoned every ounce of peaceful strength I could find, and turned to this silver-haired prune of a woman.

“Are you a mother?” I asked.

“Yes, of course I am.”

“Perhaps then you might understand just how hard it is,” I squeaked in a mouse-like voice.

“I would never have let my kids drag a teddy bear around the store,” she retorted. “You need to set limits.”

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