Mamahood can feel like climbing an icy mountain wearing dollar store flip-flops. On a recent weekday during a trip to a big box store, with two of my young’uns, I felt like I was wearing those flip-flops. I planned to buy just one simple rug. Before leaving the house, I went through the rigmarole: lunches, check, clean change of clothes, check, bathroom break (even for the one who claims he doesn’t need to go), check, money and cell phone, check, hairbow, check, matching socks, never mind!
Next comes the difficult part – the eternity it takes to get both of my kids strapped down into carseats. My daughter insists that I take off down the road with her door open, and let her shut it when we get to full-speed because, “Mama, I know what I’m doing,” and “Why don’t you ever trust me!” Meanwhile, I’m cold. It’s February. I just want to slip behind the wheel, and thaw out behind the heater vents, on my way to buy this rug. Why so complicated?!
We arrive at the store and I can’t find the rugs anywhere, which I’m sure is a scheme. I have to pass by every Euro-trashy trinket in primary colors, made in China. This store feels like a destination for the self-righteous consumer who balks at a Wal-Mart shopping experience- which is by the way, much closer to where I live. My kids are loving it. Suddenly, they need everything in the store and the prefix to my name becomes: oooooooohhhhhh, as in: “Oooooooohhhhhh Mama, can I have this?!”
Soon, they are bored with sitting in the cart. It is more fun to drive it into objects…and people! My youngest son gets a sharp jab after backing into one of the corner displays and begins to scream loudly. I have to somehow translate my inner-freak out into a sympathetic hug and medicinal kiss. Where are the rugs!? Thank God for my health-nut makeover; otherwise my low blood sugar would have driven me to the cafe for a sugary, refined, Euro- inspired pastry and coffee to go.
I turn a corner and instead of arriving at a polyester blend, Persian knock-off, I run into something else. There is a box spring on a red-tag sale, it’s down from $100 to $50.00. I actually need two box springs for my kids. Heck ya! However, one problem- I don’t have a large enough vehicle to make the trip back home. I drove our four door sedan with room for five only. No problem, the store clerk assures me. That’s what “the man” is for downstairs. She explains that it is his job to load the merchandise (which can be placed on the top of my car) and rope it down for easy passage. Sweet! I was starting to like this store. They even have Rent-A-Daddies! She congratulates me on getting a good deal, because, “At these prices, they won’t last long.”
Not long before the inventory warehouse and exit, I spot the rugs and pick up not just one simple rug for my daughter, but two more….on sale, of course! Then, giddy, I make our way to the aisle where my box springs wait. An intercom recording informs shoppers that in order to keep the prices low, the company has the customer do their own work. Huh, I thought to myself, I thought it was because it outsourced all of its manufacturing labor overseas to countries without labor attorneys and lax safety standerds. On a flat bed cart I manage to load the beds and then steer both carts and kids to the check out line. Behind me are two strapping, store employees, talking up a storm; neither man offers to help with my loot. Never mind, I just have to make it past the check-out line, and there will be my Rent-A-Daddy, ready for the rescue. Maybe he’d even take the young’uns out for ice cream and give me a chance to catch my breath.
All check-out lanes are self-service, so after man-handling the scanner-gun from my kids I contort my body around the merchandise to find the bar codes. I am dutifully playing my part in this big-box scheme like a good customer. I had to call my kids back from every direction. They are like frantic bees in the late fall, knowing that soon they will be strapped back into car seats. Keeping an eye on them, as they peak to spend the last ounce of energy, makes it difficult for me to multi-task both scanning and entering my payment information. Finally, I yank my receipt from the feeder and head off to Rent-A-Daddy. In the distance I can see him, clad in a neon, sleeveless smock. Now, I’m picking up my pace, trailing the kids behind me. As I come closer I can see his form better. Huh? Is that him?! A scrawny, teenager (early twenties at best), and pale to boot. This isn’t Rent-A-Daddy! This is Baby’s Daddy. He comes, however, with an endearing Collard Green accent and explains that it is the store’s policy to only assist in loading merchandise, not to rope it down, “for liability reasons.”
“But, the lady upstairs told me ya’ll would rope the beds down,” I explain.
“What lady?,” he asks.
“I don’t remember,” I say, flustered, “One of the sale’s clerks.”
“I know,” he shrugs, “It happens all the time.”
In that case, I say, I’d like to put the merchandise on hold until my husband can arrange for it to be picked up. He lets me in on another one of the store’s policies which is that it does not hold paid-for merchandise, which makes me, in effect, stranded unless I want to pay the hefty transportation fee. Heck no! There’s a reason I just bought all these items on clearance in the first place. The fee for the transportation costs more than the total sales amount of my purchase.
Sensing my alarm and frustration, baby’s daddy drops his voice down low, while scanning the horizon, “I’ll tell you how to rope it, then I’ll come back and pull a rope from the hood of the car to the trunk of the car to keep it steady,” he assures me. “This never happened,” he warns. Turns out Baby’s Daddy is even better than Rent-A-Daddy, who would have been too frightened over the prospect of losing job benefits to plot an escape. I was a bit intimidated by doing the first part of the roping myself, but got my Big Girl courage up and set to work. It turns out to be very difficult because every time I make another loop my daughter opens that door just to say: “Hi mama!,” thereby loosening the loops I’m making. There’s a real able-boddied daddy parked next to my car. He never offers to help. I’m thinking that I need to move out of the North and head back to Collard Green country, where a real man would feel awkward just to idle there without offering assistance.
It was awhile before Baby’s Daddy comes back. Again, he scans the surroundings carefully then quickly sets down to work, sliding rope, like a master weaver, in and out of my front grill. He’s amused all the while: “My sister had a car just like this,” he recalls and smiles. I like this kid and think he’d do well in the real world where a cool head under pressure and a sure-footed gait, takes the cake. He obviously enjoyed the thrill of rule-breaking; meanwhile, I stood on the look-out – as scared as a schizophrenic squirrel.
Suddenly, a voice calls out from inside the car. “Mama, he’s voooooomiting! You better hurry up!” It’s my daughter’s voice. I rush to the rear passenger seat, and sure enough, my youngest is vomiting up his afternoon snack, in heaping chunks.
“Oh sweetie,” I start, “It’s o.k., calm down, you’re alright. Take a deep breath. Mama’s here. Drink some water.” You know the routine. I reach in to hold his head, clean him up, and ease off his top-layer sweater. Within ten minutes he’s fast asleep and reeking of stomach acids. In my quest to buy just one simple rug, I’d left his spare clothes at home.
Baby’s daddy was still fast at work- he doesn’t let the panic and putrid smells from the car deter him from this 007 task. Before long he’s done and standing near the hood to examine his handy work.
“Do you think this will hold?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he says as he tests it by jerking the beds every which way to see if they will give, “It ain’t goin’ no where.”
I look around, and not seeing any other store employees in sight, reach into my purse and grab the wad of cash on hand, and hold it out. He hesitates, but I stay steady. After another quick scan of the premises, he says: “Well, I can take that.” Baby’s Daddy winks and swipes it without another word, then takes off like Spiderman. I imagine him springing to assist another stranded, jilted mom from the bedding section.
I set down in my car, relieved, tap down on the hazard lights and set off. Just before turning onto the highway a State Trooper pulls up behind me. My grip strains over the steering wheel. Then, apparently, slowed down by my speed, the officer jerks around and takes off. Whew!
On the highway I stay in the far right lane and try to keep my speed slow enough to be safe, but fast enough to beat the angry onslaught of rush hour traffic. My GPS takes me through a long underwater tunnel. At some point in the middle of the dark tunnel, the top box spring starts to slump forward over my front window. I start to panic for lack of a smarty-pants solution. This is not the way I’d come at all. My GPS was going off script, as if it had a personality to enjoy a good laugh at my expense. Finally out of the tunnel, I drive off on the margin of the highway, and look back at the kids. They are still asleep – at least I’ve got that going for me. I slip out of my car, pull myself onto the hood (no easy trick in a long skirt) and proceed to shove and shift the top box spring back in place. Here I am in a hijab and long skirt wrestling with box springs on the top of my car. That must have been a sight. I made du’a (prayer) and coaxed my inner soldier-girl the whole time.
After that, I decide to slow down which indeed brings me into rush hour traffic and under the wrath of all those drivers, who I sympathize with more than myself. I feel like that guy in Morocco, trolling on his mo-ped with a sheep carcass saddled over the ride- holding up all the smokier engines behind him. People are peering in and likely thinking, what is THAT?!
Just as I turn the corner to my street, I tally the days humiliating events. I glance my sons’ sleeping face in the rear-view mirror. Hopefully, I’ll be able to inch into my driveway without getting heckled by any of the neighborhood kids. I say this because during the last mile the top bed had started to lung forward, again, making my loot look pathetically flotsam as if I’d just robbed the Bed Barn.
As I turn the corner, my elderly neighbors inch from the opposite direction. Just as my bed lunges, they lunge forward to see my car’s freakish top-hat. I want to slide down under my steering wheel, but instead I manage a hearty wave as if I was steering the premiere float in a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.
Once parked, I abandon the box springs on my car to wake my son up and ease him into a warm bath. All was well in the world. If anyone looked out from their window, they now question my sanity, and maybe wonder if I really did rob a Bed Barn. I certainly climbed to the icy peak in my flip-flops that day, and I either earned another resiliency badge or killed a few brain cells. Whichever, my box springs are not just any box springs. They tell a story and they make me laugh, whenever I want to- for no particular reason.
Collard Green Muslim 
Oh my goodness! This made me laugh so hard. I completely understand your pain – especially the apathetic onlookers that just watch the mobile circus that is your life with no thought to jump in and offer a little help! Since I work during the kids school hours, I normally run my errands with ALL FOUR kids. I guess I like a challenge, or perhaps I just like to punish myself unnecessarily ;). Yesterday was a Costco field-trip, which aside from Safia’s inappropriately loud booger picking comment, we left with relatively the same amount of dignity with which we entered. Contrast this to last Friday’s Whole Foods extravaganza, which left me wondering why I’d ever decided to trade in my J.D. for building babies in the uterus factory – clearly my machines were doing something wrong. We picked up our cart and the second we entered the store (actually, technically it was only through the first sliding door, we hadn’t made it into the second sliding door yet), Zayd has a complete meltdown because Safia picked up the box of clementines and put it in the cart and HE wanted to put it in the cart. Mind you, the clementines were placed next to sleeping Raniyah who added to the chaos since her 11 month old body took up nearly the entire space of the small Whole Food cart. I think Whole Food’s sustainable living model isn’t taking into consideration that sustainable living has to be enlarged a bit when you have a Costco-sized family ;). After I threaten Zayd for nearly two minutes about leaving the store (which I was serious about and nearly did), he calmed down. Then the three non-sleeping children scattered around the store like cockroaches when the light turns on, to try to put their dirty grubby hands all over the fresh produce samples. Here I am, the Muslim with the family which is too-large-to-be-normal, with these brown kids that look like they’ve been raised in the wild, with my hijaab on, and I’m about to LOSE it. Did I mention it’s only been about 5 minutes since I exited the car?
Now, because I was coaching Safia’s creative writing group for the two hours BEFORE I made it to Whole Foods, my bladder needed a bit of a break, so I had to corral all the kids to the OTHER side of the store to take turns in the potty. Turns out, all of our bladders needed breaks (sometimes I do miss diapers, too bad they don’t make them for 7 & 5 year olds). We alternated between who was in the bathroom supervising (Safia & I) and who was outside with the cart and my fourth child. Once that saga was over (15 minutes at least, I kid you not – not too bad for four of us to use the lou I guess), we slowly trekked through each aisle, going over what we needed, wanted, please can I have it, and no it has gelatin in it, through an endless list of products. All said and done, I was set back over 2 hours (which caused me to run into rush hour traffic, setting me back ANOTHER hour) and more money than I thought should be consumed in a week (the food was actually consumed in less than a week – who knew these kids were this expensive!). What’s even more amusing is the people that would peer into the cart with Raniyah sleeping and say something like, “how precious,” or “don’t you just love that?” I just smiled, because my vocal cords were exhausted from yelling at my little monkeys. I love motherhood, but it’s sort of like loving running a marathon – it takes a lot training and self-sacrifice, but when you look at how far you’ve come, and you’ve realized that it’s a combination of God’s Mercy and your hard work, well it’s all worth it :).
So that was the photo from Whole foods??! Hilarious, woman. I’m laughing because it always falls on the eldest child (i.a. Safiyah bathroom watching for you). The is the case with Zayd. So, I have a question. Did all of that really have gelatin in it or did you just want to get out of there -so suddenly everything in the store was loaded with gelatin???? I won’t tell. Regarding whole foods – that is why it earns the nickname Whole Paycheck. Do ya’ll have a Mom’s Organic there?
Oh, honey! I feel for you because I know. I will have to write about my adventure of picking up a couch in a rental truck with two toddlers…and we get there, and the store isn’t there anymore! I think people are probably tired of hearing about my couch. And, I don’t think schitzophrenic squirrels are scared. I think they are happy because they always have someone to talk to! Lol!
You are right! I’ll never take schitzophrenic squirrels for granted again! Please do tell about your adventure. I want to hear.