When you are the parent of a toddler, you’ll find many doors are opened. I mean, literally — people are, like, bending over backwards and falling out of trees to open doors for you. If you have any difficulty in public while caring for a baby, a silent alarm goes off and somebody appears to help. It’s like when little ducklings are crossing the street and everybody stops their cars, because, look, man — ducklings!
I’m grateful that people are so accommodating towards my daughter and me, but I worry about taking it for granted (did I mention that I’m neurotic?). Look, I’m not rubbing my palms and scheming ways to take advantage of people’s generosity, but I have found myself stepping into a gray area. For example:
On Friday afternoon five days before Christmas, my wife and I had a little shopping left to do. We bundled up 23 month-old Hazel and took the subway a few stops to a nearby commercial hub in our home borough of Brooklyn. Hazel loves to ride the train and run around in stores, and it was 5 pm before her momentum wore off and she fell asleep in her carrier on my chest.
Hazel’s milk bottle was nearly empty, so as my wife continued shopping I set off into the cold December air in search of a refill. As you’d expect, there was a Starbucks approximately three feet away. Great, I thought, I’ll just add a little milk from the pitcher.
As I entered the store I debated looking for a bodega instead, but why spend money when I only needed enough to avert a potential crisis on the train home? I considered buying a coffee or even a cup of milk at the counter, but standing in line with a sleeping toddler behind a dozen rambunctious teen-agers in the first hours of their winter vacation didn’t strike me as a wise choice. Besides, the table with all the “fixin’s” was right there, two steps from the door!
An employee with a green apron was a few feet away changing a garbage bag. I felt nervous, but I wasn’t going to sneak around. I was a guy with a baby who’d run out of milk. Whatever. I poured about four ounces into her bottle.
“Excuse me,” he said loudly as I screwed the nipple back on. “Are you going to buy something?”
From the way he said it you’d think he caught me washing my underwear in the bathroom sink.
I heard myself bark back at him, “I’m in Starbucks all the time. Sorry, I had an emergency this one time.” Then I turned and walked out.
When I told my wife the story, she was on my side, but the whole ride home my nerves were on edge. Was that such a bad thing to do? In most cases like that, the only thing anybody would say to you is, “Cute baby!” So why was he so bent out of shape — because he’s the guy who has to fill the milk and replace the napkins that college kids steal from the dispenser? Maybe it was a case of misdirected anger resulting from working for a company that charges more for a cappuccino than it pays him in an hour. Sure, I was bending the rules, but you know that saying, “It takes a village to raise a child?” Well, clearly he didn’t.
In spite of my rationalizing, I knew I was guilty. (Maybe I should mail a confession to Starbucks’ headquarters, along with a check for — what’s the going rate for four ounces of milk?) The universe, however, wasn’t holding it against me. Not only was there a Starbucks gift-card sitting on my desk when I went to work that Monday (a present from a colleague), there was the following incident a week later.
On Friday after Christmas I took Hazel to Manhattan. We played in the Union Square playground and then met some friends of mine for lunch. Instead of tiring her out, the playground had energized Hazel. One minute she was trying to grab my friend Scott’s plate of noodles from the table, and the next she was running off to climb a bar stool, where she could steal menus and play with the cash register. By the time we said goodbye and headed our separate ways, I was drained. And as luck would have it, Hazel was out of milk. We stopped at Starbucks.
After approximately forever, I made it to the front of the line, but every time I heard someone call for the next guest, I found that, somehow, another customer was already there. I stood there, frazzled, until a young woman rescued me. “Sir, I can take you over here.”
After ordering my coffee and giving my name, I held up a bottle and asked about milk for the little one. She waved a hand — “Oh, you can get that from the pitchers behind you.” With Hazel on one arm and bags hanging from both shoulders, I dug through my coat pockets to find my wallet. My new friend interrupted. “You can go ahead and fill your bottle.”
Confused but thankful, I attended to the milk situation. A moment later I heard my name (or something vaguely like it) being called further down the counter. I took my drink, but nobody was waiting to take my money.
And with that, my stresses began to lift. Somebody with a little common sense and compassion had sized me up — a flustered guy with a kid — sorted me out, and sent me on my way. It’s a beautiful thing when somebody 10 years younger than you helps you so effortlessly. I felt like I was a kid, and somebody was looking out for me. Parenting can make age meaningless — we’re all just people, trying to do the right thing and giving a little help when it’s needed.
You know that saying, “It takes a village to raise a child?” Even in an impersonal, over-crowded city like New York, people still believe that. Because — well, you know. Ducklings!
Tim Perrins is a part-time stay-at-home dad who lives with his wife, their toddler, and two ravenous dogs in Park Slope, Brooklyn. More of his thoughts about babies and other things that confuse him can be found at www.RevoltOfTheImbeciles.blogspot.com.
