Welcome to Wal-mart. How May I Help You?

Parenting sometimes gets me down, rather the details do. School lines, boxtops, peanut butter sandwiches that need the right size bags, incessant school fees, homework that just has to be done.
 
Every night.
 
Especially now that my husband’s in Iraq, the minutiae of life is pushed back to the part of my brain only activated by a phone call from school that goes something like this:  “Mrs. French, did you forget your daughter’s piano lesson?”
 
One day, I was hurrying to get out of Wal-Mart, so I could get back to school for pick up.  It was a day that I hadn’t heard from my husband and was worried about his safety when a lady at the door stopped me.
 
“Receipt?”
 
Now, I’d never been asked for a receipt in all my shopping excursions and I certainly didn’t want to start now.
 
Had I been profiled?  Had there been a rash of shoplifters who hadn’t showered or brushed their hair?
 
I took a deep breath and stuck my hand down into the abyss that is my purse.
 
Empty Tic Tac box. Tweezers.  One chop stick. Melted crayons that turned into a blob of wax that got stuck under my fingernails.
 
“Why do I have to show you the receipt?  Do I look like I’m trying to steal something?”  I was angry, which – in spite of my southern nature – actually showed.  
 
“It’s just my job,” she said, calmly.
 
“I’m just trying to get out the door!  Why don’t you ask that guy?  Or that one?”
 
Two admittedly suspicious good ole boys walked by and didn’t appreciate being pointed out. I was making a scene.
 
“I’m late to get my kids!” I added, feeling the desperation of a person who’s always the last mom through the pick-up line.
 
What I didn’t know is that one of my items was oversized and they have to check the receipts for items not in bags.  Shockingly, after my tirade, the elderly lady didn’t explain all that.
 
In a moment I’ve thought of several times since, the greeter simply put her hand on my arm.
 
“Honey, I love you.  And everything’s gonna be okay.”
 
Then, quite surprisingly, she gave me my receipt and a hug, and I buried my nose into the shoulder of her polyester blue vest.  We stood there, as if I’d found my long lost grandmother, in a sweet embrace and I reluctantly left her to go back into the harsh world represented by the Wal-Mart parking lot.

But the crayons weren’t the only things which melted that day.