A Witness to Pain & Exhaustion

Feeling sad, very sad. Just zipped over to Target [it's not far from the condo, on Route 3 East] to check out the Liberty of London line, since I saw it advertised in Vogue.

Outside the fitting room, I heard a baby crying, loudly, persistently, without pause. He was aisles away--over near bras and lingerie--but I took a peek. He was maybe two years old, wailing and wailing from the baby seat in the signature red shopping cart. Screaming bloody murder, as my mother would have said. It went on for 10 minutes or more--or at least it felt that way. It was a guttural sound. He didn't have words to express what he felt, just tears and wails.

The woman at the helm of the cart--his mom, I presumed--kept looking at merchandise. No "Hold on, honey, I'm coming. Give Mommy one more minute. Sorry, honey." I didn't hear a word.

"If You See Something, Say Something"
That's what the signs in the subway and Port Authority say, but they're referring to crime.

Part of me wanted to go by the cart and say something like, "Oh, he's so cute. What a handsome little boy," or something like that, but I didn't. I could be wrong, but the vibe I got in that split second when I saw his mom was: Back off. Keep your distance. I'm in charge here. Again, I readily admit that I have a very vivid writer's imagination--spinning stories from a single glance.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. The store was quiet at that hour, and we all heard the little boy. His cries were loud and pleading.

"The kid is tired," said one young man to the woman he was with, though he looked way too young to be a dad himself.

She Ain't Heavy, She's My Sister
I don't judge the mom, not at all. In fact, part of my sadness is for her. I know I'm extrapolating this whole story, but I thought, She's a single mom. She's worked all week. She got her paycheck. She wants to buy something pretty for herself, and this is the only chance she has. Let her just find that one pretty camisole.

I remember quite clearly how important it was to get out by yourself when a baby is at home. How exhausted you can be, how much you need a little window to do something for yourself, whether it's shop for something indulgent [a book, perfume, a sweater], meet a friend for coffee, go on a date, take a walk. But to do that, you need someone to watch the baby. You might need money to pay a sitter. You might need a supportive partner. You might need a car.

It was after 10 P.M. He just wants to be home. He should have been home, in a warm bubble bath, before bedtime stories, I thought. It doesn't really matter where home is, whether it's a small apartment or a big house, he just wants to be home with someone he loves taking care of him and putting him to sleep. He's exhausted. It's late at night. He wants to lay his head down.

Rewind
I kept thinking of Figgy. Goodness knows that H. and I did not do everything right, but we did try to have a bedtime routine. There's security in that, for everyone involved.

I also thought of Punch & Judy, and hoped she was safe, and not wailing herself in a cart somewhere. I can't help but worry sometimes. Again, not because I'm perfect [far from it], but because I know how imperfect life can be.

Lastly, I thought of my friend Moey. I remember telling her, when Figgy was a baby and H. and I had taken her out to dinner, that she had acted up a lot in the restaurant.

"Babies don't belong in restaurants," I think she said. Moey has always taken Figgy's side, anyway.

Now, as I write this, I remember one very bad evening at Paramus Park Mall when it was just me and Figgy and I was really upset at her behavior in the food court and I carried her out of the mall, very angry and very mad. I am not proud of that evening. It is painful to remember, to admit, to take the blinders off. I practically threw her in her crib when we got home. It was ugly. It was awful. I must have been really mad, because it's a 20-minute ride home from the mall. That's scary, that my rage was still so hot. I'm still troubled by the memory. Ironically, I don't remember much of Figgy's bad behavior that day, but do recall a lot of mine. I also remember clearly that my therapist later said, "No, you don't want to behave like that, but let's talk about it." Does the woman at Target have someone to talk to?

I daresay that that cute little baby boy did not belong in Target at 10 o'clock at night. I just hope he is safe and sound now.

What do you think? I'd love to know. It troubles me deeply.