- I find some little leather slippers with frogs on them for him. Perfect!
- A coordinating pant and tee set, and I think it’s a boutique brand. Nice!
- Aw, a Gymboree playsuit with a raccoon on the front... and a striped tail on the back? Yessss!
- Baby clothes- (I cluck to myself) most of the time, they hardly get worn and then they outgrow it. They’re more pre-washed than pre-worn.
The other clerk, (the colder one) passes by me, and I ask for confirmation that the shirts I am eyeing are indeed part of the buy-two, get-two-free sale (!!!). Making a sound in his throat to convey the inconvenience of my question (or my existence on this planet), he politely agrees, yes, they are on sale.
Alright. I throw Damon over my forearm so he’s looking at the floor, and a few brief cardigans and pullovers later, I’m checking out. I hear Jack in the play area, singing the ABCs and playing with the little green army men which were wedged in the play cash register drawer like military sardines in a can.
Just as I am about to head over there, I hear, “Mommy, I pooped. I pooped! And I peed. I’m wet!” I see the stain covering his pants and agree, yes, he is wet. @#$% (you know which expletive I mean). Damon is already nestled in the baby sling. I haul Jack back over the wall at arm’s length, taking care not to let any part of him touch that carpet that blankets it like a 70s rumpus room.
I survey the damage: The linoleum floor is a little wet, and it looks like one of the green army men took a hit. I pick it up, and order Jack to stay *right there* while I hurry off to the restroom in the back. I take the last of the paper towel, think for a second, rinse off the little army man, and leave him to dry on the edge of the sink (I mean, what would you do??).
Jack is continuing to inform me of his damp state. I make reassuring sounds, saying we’ll take care of it somewhere else. As I am laboriously leaning over that darned wall with my wad of cheap paper towel in hand, and Damon is protesting getting wedged between me and it, the 2nd clerk comes over and says, word-for-word, “If I may ask... what is *that*... on the floor?” (Did you not hear Jack’s store-wide announcement, Buster?) I pause, then, striving for understatement, I say, “well, he’s potty training.” Pause. “It looks like it’s just the floor that is a little wet.” He replies, “We’ll try to find SOME way to get it clean.” A little pee? Really?
I ask you, who is the most wretched one of us:
1) me, the chagrined mother, who somehow naively deemed training pants to be optional when my poor little guy still can’t quite figure out where number 2 goes;
2) the clerk, who just wants to get the *heck* home and who doesn’t want to accept that he works at a CHILDREN’S SECOND HAND STORE (which I love to patronize, by the way, no shame there... which is partly my point). What does he THINK is going to happen here- swingin’ and stylish twenty-somethings sloshing their martinis on the floor, while they flirt and exchange witticisms?
3) or, poor Jack, who is wearing soggy Elmo underwear full of you-know-what, and will soon have his bare butt exposed to 25 degree weather and freezing rain, lying on the floor of the minivan, the door wide open, while I clean him up?
I'll end the story there to leave something to the imagination, but what I have to offer is this: Humility, people! This Lutheran is preachin’ humililty- a warm cup of it to go around! Think on it. Nothing makes a person humble like being in the toilet training trenches, rag in hand. Even if you haven't potty trained a small person, your mother, father grandmother, or other beloved caregiver did- for you.
Happy skidding cars and “wintery mix” from Charlotte, North Carolina!!
