Yes Sir, That's my Baby

Driving home from dropping Mirabella off at day care and a disastrous trip to the dollar store for plastic Easter eggs, I decide to take a detour to David's Bridal. My two-month-old, Emerie, snoozes in the backseat of our new-to-us vehicle that The Boy affectionately refers to as "the grocery getter." For obvious reasons, I have been putting off ordering a bridesmaid's dress for my college roommate's May 30th wedding, but for reasons far less apparent, bridesmaids' dresses take months longer to deliver than any other kind of dress, so ordering one on April 1st for a Memorial Day wedding is pushing it.

Of course, as I unfold the stroller, the baby begins to cry. And from a combination of acid reflux, a cold bestowed upon her with the utmost affection by her big sister, and persistent crying over the last week, homegirl is hoarse. This does not bode well for my shopping trip or public perception. I stop just short of the store to remove Emerie from her seat and try to calm her down, then attempt to enter the store whilst pushing the stroller and holding the newborn. A saleswoman-- Donna-- opens the door for me, and I manage to tell her what I need just in time for her to take a lengthy phone call. I start to wander the aisles, frantically trying to find a dress before Emerie loses it, but she never really had it to begin with, so I end up outside to let her cry it out. When I reenter the store, Donna is (still) on the phone, and I manage to find the styles I had seen and liked online. Donna tracks me down with a list of the bridesmaids and asks if the baby is hungry. I cannot understand why this is commonly believed to be the only reason babies cry.

"No, she just ate" I tell her, "She's just a cranky baby," which is mostly true.

She tells me I don't want the dress in my hand because Lindsay, the matron of honor, will be wearing it. She directs me to a one-shouldered number that makes me scrunch my nose. We select three additional dresses-- one I like and two I don't-- and head to the fitting rooms. Emerie fusses loudly as I begin to sweat, knowing that if I were here for any other reason I already would have dumped the dresses without trying them on and walked out (as I have done in Banana Republic, and the Gap Outlet, and JC Penney, and various other fine retailers while cradling a wailing infant and an apologetic smile). I begin to panic knowing she will scream when I set her down in her dreaded seat.

As I open the fitting room door and steer the stroller inside, Donna says, "Here. Give me the baby. I'm a grandma; I'm a pro." And here's the moment I'll reflect on when winning Mother of the Year, 2010: I gave her the baby. Along with a burp cloth. Wouldn't want her to get spit up on her ensemble while kidnapping my child. I could hear her singing to Emerie while I tore my clothes off, all the while thinking, it would be very difficult for her to take the baby. There are lots of people here; there are security cameras; she works here and they know all her information. But really, I can't believe I gave her my baby. A minute later there's a knock on my door and Janice says Donna has sent her to help me.

"Don't worry," she tells me, "Donna is wonderful with babies." She also tells me I look great "for just having had a baby," a modified compliment sure to thrill any new mother. She hems and haws over the dresses, asking me to try on the one I already have and getting me a new size. Donna comes back bouncing my baby.

"I didn't want you to think I had taken her, mom," she says, "We are just fine." Clearly, I am not, as I have handed my infant off to a a stranger.

Janice returns with a larger size and news that my top choice will not be in until the week before the wedding, but I could take said larger size home today, and besides, doesn't it fit better in the bust anyway? So I'm back in my clothes and Donna is walking with me to the cash register, singing nonsense words to my child as onlookers stare.

"Who gave Donna a baby?" an employee asks, but the manager, dressed in black, is all smiles as I stumble an attempt at complimenting Donna, the babyknapping saleswoman of the year.

At the counter, yet another saleswoman explains that I can't get the widely-advertised $20 discount because my bride bought her dress "almost a year ago" in August. I cannot understand the logic behind this policy, but the baby is crying (again) and my self esteem is waning. I fork over the full amount and take the dress. Donna puts Emerie in her seat and pushes the stroller, insisting on walking me to my car. She commiserates with me about a similar experience she had when her kids were young (in which a salesperson did not take her child). As I secure the baby in her seat, Donna asks if I am okay and hugs me. If a stranger is giving you a hug, chances are, you're not okay. I weakly ask her if the woman in black is her manager and tell her I really appreciate her kindness, that I want to ensure her manager is aware of it, and that if it weren't for her I would have left without buying a dress. She graciously waves me off and I proceed to a more remote section of the parking lot where I nurse my child in the driver's seat.

So thankfully, I made it to term and had a healthy baby, Emerie Jane, at 39 weeks via C-section because she was breech and refused to be moved. And she is precious and most days are not as stupid as the one seen here, but heading out unescorted into the world with my daughters reminds me of a feeling that overwhelmed me when Mirabella was born: I've never felt less competent than I have as a mother. I believe I first uttered those words when I locked myself out of the house and a six-week-old Mirabella in. Thank goodness for God's provision and sweet, healthy, forgiving children.