I had a flashback this week. Not the quiet-reverie-triggered-by-an-old-song sort of a thing. Nope, this was the helicopter circling, bullets whizzing past, buddies getting shot around you in a rice paddy type deal. Except mine was at a shopping mall. In a women’s store.
My daughter and a friend needed a lift home from Stanford Shopping Center. She texted the location and time and I arrived abnormally early. My standard practice is to come screeching around a corner, skid to the curb and declare to my riders that, yet again, I’m right on time. I even had to find a parking spot. My spot was in the front row, straight across the drive from the pick-up location. Straight across from where “it” happened. It came back all at once, I was actually here again. My palms got watery and the R&D team from Right Guard started earning their money. Today an innocuous computer store occupies the space but in December of 2001 it was a national purveyor of maternity goods.
It was two days before Christmas that Carrie and I welcomed twins into our world. There was quite a bit going on as you may imagine. The babies were both small – 5 pounds 3 ounces and 4 pound and a half ounce. We were in the neo-natal ICU as a precaution because the kids needed to pack on some weight. As a maternity nurse, Carrie was up to speed on all things baby but I was still learning how to change a diaper (front and back is a distinction one must master), proper cleaning, burping and myriad other tasks. As the resident food source, Carrie was on a short leash, which cast me in the role of errand boy. It was Christmas eve day that she asked sweetly, “Would you please go to the mall and get me a nursing bra?”
Carrie is always great about giving me all the information I need. I’m just not always great about accepting it or, more accurately, paying close attention. It didn’t help that I was operating on extremely short sleep. Once Carrie gave me the name of the place, she continued on about something or other but was drowned out by my internal narrative:
So I’ll get the nursing bra at the mall, maybe have time to get sandwiches. God, I’m hungry. When did I last eat? I gotta find my keys. These wall murals are almost too happy but Pooh corner sounds totally cool. The “h” on that word is definitely important, ha! How far is the walk from the maternity place to find food? I should get scarce before Nurse Ratched makes me change another diaper…
My time would have been much better spent listening to my wife.
If you’ve never walked into a maternity store as a man, it’s like the Land of Oz but scarier and much more strange. Everything has a different purpose than what a man will naturally assume. It’s like a fake REI. The stringy things there on that rack? Not slingshots. The items hanging on the wall are not “kid sized tents”. Well, in a way they are but one is well advised to avoid that terminology. One of the two clerks read my saucer sized eyes and kindly approached.
“May I help you find something?”
“Uh yes. I’m not a weirdo.” That established, I stammered on, “My wife and I just had twins and she sent me to get a nursing bra – for her.”
Hearing this, the second clerk approached. She knew a wreck of some kind was about to occur and had no intention of missing out. “Congratulations! Of course we have nursing bras. Follow me. Are the twins boys or girls?”
I began to feel a little more comfortable and followed my new friends. “One of each, actually. We’re really excited.”
“Here we are. We have several brands and a couple different styles,” she declared. “What size is she?”
Uh-oh. “Size… Oh, uh, wow…” This is the part where all I needed was a letter of the alphabet. Any letter. “She’s about…” It could have been a letter from the greek alphabet. No, instead I hoisted a pair of invisible grapefruits to my chest, a pleading expression to my face and said “like this?”
If synchronized lip biting ever becomes a thing, my money is on this pair. They exchanged a very quick look and, without erupting in laughter, turned their attention back to moi. In fairness, Jackie O. could not have been more gracious than this woman. She selected something off the rack and said, “I think this will work and if not you can just exchange it!”
She could have handed over a can of motor oil and gotten no argument from me. I thanked her, paid as quickly as I could and speed walked to the door. If they had a surveillance video, I’m sure it’s been viewed in training seminars and in the break room over cold beers as a morale builder. I’m just lucky this was before You Tube.
Miraculously, the contraption fit. Carrie and the hospital staff get to enjoy a fun tale at my expense, everyone is hungry, let’s eat. I left to pick up food at the same mall only to discover that my credit card is gone. The take-out man says “Maybe it’s not stolen, where did you use it last?” Oh shit.
“Yes, hello. I was in there a couple hours ago. I don’t know if it was you that helped me, if not I’m sure you’ve heard the story. In any case, my name is Patrick and did I leave my credit card?”
We met again at the store’s check out desk, immediately adjacent to the non-slingshots. It must have been exhaustion working to my favor but I’d reached a point of no longer caring and was able enjoy a good laugh with the ladies who’d helped me. It would have been much easier if I’d just listened to my wife – but I would have missed out on a fairly good story.
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