Thank You, Kind Strangers

It was one of those days.

An unwelcome visitor had kicked us in the face all night, so sleep was in short supply. Our 2-and-a-half-year-old decided it was time to get up for the day at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m. Teething had turned our 16-month-old into a screeching banshee who refused to let me set her down for any length of time. And, in an apparent attempt to punish us for having children, our cat vomited all over the carpet. Twice.

It was, in short, a survival-mode day. Nothing productive was likely to come from such circumstances. So I set my sights suitably low, abandoning plans for a Saturday zoo outing and instead settling for a trip to the grocery store. We could handle that, right?

But, it turns out, going grocery shopping with two feisty toddlers on the busiest shopping day of the week is pretty much asking for trouble.

Sure, the trip starts out fine — optimistic, even. We park a mile away in order to claim the car-cart that’s docked in the corral. (Every parent of a toddler knows what I’m talking about — and what a jackpot it is to find one.) The kids are happily beeping away on their horns as I maneuver the massive contraption into the store. Even the 16-month-old is temporarily distracted from the misery in her mouth by this new delight.

Once inside, however, things start to go downhill. Elbows are flying as both attempt to steer in the cramped cab. The older one loudly complains that the younger is honking his horn. A pair of free cookies from the bakery buys us a few more minutes of peace, but it doesn’t last long.

Then all hell breaks loose. In the middle of the baking aisle, my 2-year-old lets out a squeal of joy.

“Mama, look! Cars!”

Dread wells up in my gut. Despite my best efforts to steer well clear of the colorful diecast car shelf, we still somehow end up within eyesight of it. (I swear they move it around on a daily basis just to mess with parents.) And now that he’s seen it, there’s no pretending it doesn’t exist. There is only one thing to do: execute my Emergency Extraction Plan.

I quickly triage the remaining items on my grocery list, practically running to gather the last few must-haves, all the while trying in vain to distract my toddler from the glimpse of heaven that’s been so rudely ripped away from him. As if one tantruming toddler weren’t enough to deal with, the 16-month-old pipes up too. I scramble to pick her up, striving in vain to minimize the damage to other shoppers’ hearing.

Waiting in the checkout line (of course even the shortest one has a dozen people with fully loaded carts), trying desperately to soothe both kids or at least reduce their volume to somewhere below jet-engine level, I try to ignore the irritated looks. A handful of twenty-somethings who clearly don’t have kids stare at my wailing entourage with a mixture of confusion, curiosity, and horror.

I get that.

In those moments, they probably think of us in the way someone might think of those 13th-century Flagellants who whipped their own backs raw. Why would anyone do that to themselves? They must be wondering with regard to our decision to reproduce.

What I don’t get, however, are the middle-aged folks who in all likelihood have had children, but nonetheless make no effort to hide their irritation and disgust. Wasn’t this YOU, twenty years ago? I want to shout. But the raw reality of these tumultuous toddler days is probably buried deep in their subconscious. Those memories are probably biding their time until their own kids have children, at which point they’ll bubble up again, bringing compassion and empathy along with them. Until then, though, they’d probably rather not go there. Irritation is easier than empathy.

One kind soul, however, breaks the mold. A grandfatherly figure the next line over smiles widely at my kids and tries to engage them in conversation. It works. Both kiddos stare at the man in dismay as if wondering just who this old guy thinks he is. They’re not happy, but at least they’re quiet. I’ll take it.

Meanwhile, I fumble to unload the grocery cart one-handed, not daring to set the younger one back in the cart lest she starts howling again. It’s taking longer than it should, and once again, the people behind us look on with barely disguised annoyance. I feel again the unspoken social pressure to perform. To move faster. To stop inconveniencing people with my wild, uncivilized progeny.

And then the grandfatherly man shows up again. “Here, let me help you,” he says. And he finishes unloading the cart, all the while talking to my toddler in cheerful and soothing tones, somehow managing to stave off his tears.

The man goes on to help me bag my groceries and load them back in the cart. I’m so stunned I can’t find the words to convey my gratitude. “Thank you so much,” I keep repeating, the phrase falling far short of capturing the immense impact he’s made. He waves it off like it’s nothing — like helping a frazzled mother in the grocery store is all in a day’s work — then goes back to his own cart, abandoned the next aisle over.

My mind is still struggling to process what just happened as I push the cart out into the parking lot — and into the pouring rain. As if this day couldn’t get any worse. My mood again sours as I trudge through the puddles to get to our car, regretting my decision to park out in the boonies for the sake of the car-cart (which backfired in any event).

Both kids are wailing, again, and I’m struggling to pop the trunk when another stranger — a dad with grown kids, I’d guess — comes sprinting across the parking lot.

“Let me help you!” he says, loading the groceries into my car so I can focus on getting the kiddos strapped in.

Again, I’m blown away. He has no umbrella, and he’s sopping wet by the time he shuts the trunk.

“Thank you, thank you so much!” I keep effusing, the words again seeming so inadequate. The man just smiles and sprints back to his own vehicle.

Driving home, the kids finally quiet, the groceries safely stowed, I can’t help but smile. The stresses of the day vanish in comparison to the goodness of not one, but two kind strangers. Their actions were much-needed reminders that there are angels among us; they’re just ordinary people who go out of their way to be helpful and kind-hearted, even to strangers who are inconveniencing them.

Months later, I still think of that day, and it still makes me smile. I hope I, too, can be that kind stranger. Not just today and tomorrow, but 20 years down the road, when I’ve long suppressed the memories of just how chaotic these early years of motherhood can be.

I hope that the next time I’m feeling annoyed at the person who’s holding up the line at the grocery store checkout, I can instead channel the astounding empathy of those two strangers, and perhaps make someone else’s day a little bit brighter.