Cold Comfort

I have a helluva headcold and am being a big baby about it. So you may want to turn down the volume so you don't hear me whining...

Yesterday X and I went to the Como Zoo in St. Paul, which is struggling to not be as pathetic as it is. I appreciate it's free and they are doing some nice development, but seeing animals made mentally ill by their confinement isn't my idea of recreation. Yet it was rainy and the boy was crawling the walls and I needed to find something for us to do. Instead of shopping. It was a good call. In the conservatory the flowers were unbelievable - it's like my senses have lost the ability to perceive colors like green and yellow and pink. I took a bunch of pix and intend to put it on Facebook as a little eye candy for us beleagured northerners, after a hell of a winter.

While we were in the neighborhood, I swung out to the thrift store near the group home. For some reason I'm always blanking on the name - I want to call it Unique Thrift Store but I may be high from decongestants. It's basically on Larpenteur and Rice, just before you run out of St. Paul and into Maplewood. Since I usually tack a store visit onto a work visit, I haven't brought kids in it before. It rapidly became clear why this was a good thing and that I shouldn't have bucked the trend.

The place is huge. It's well lit, neat, laid out so you can actually shop. My kids have certainly been in stores before, but now that it's a rare trip instead of a weekly excursion, the shopping skills have really dropped off. As if they were deprived of civilized shopping experience and acted accordingly savage? Or have they just forgotten parameters like stay near Mom so she doesn't lose you under a clothing rack and have a heart attack?

Part of the problem is the way that there isn't a toy section per se - there's a shelf on top of each long line of clothes that has assorted toys on it. Thankfully, they are higher than a five-year-old's reach, but well within sight. And they tend to be giant configurations of eye-catchingly bright plastic that kids love and parents fear.

We were on a mission: rain boots. Found two pairs, both too small. Drat. That was the "needed" item, and an elusive one at that. I erred in not having a clear exit strategy. Sign of the times. The wandering commenced, moving towards the door - sort of.

For some reason I picked up a bag of assorted buttons and a Trek bike helmet in like new condition. But as I kept telling X we didn't need toys so wouldn't be buying any, I reminded myself about the new standards and that they should apply to me as well. The bag of buttons went back first. Although I do use them regularly in my jewelry projects and there were a couple really cool ones in there - definitely have about a billion to use before I need to restock. So I reined in my inner magpie. The bike helmet was more of a decision process - mine's at least 12 years old and not exactly state of the art, but still functional. I haven't taken a major crash since the ill-fated Rollerblading incident in grad school. I may be tempting fate by leaving behind the swank helmet with the sun visor and uber-adjustable straps. I have a huge fear of being traumatically brain injured somehow - bodily okay but mentally unrecognizable. I've worked with some incredibly sad TBI cases over the years, and they've left an impression. But I digress. Humor me, and act shocked.

In order to walk the talk and be consistent - both for my own conscience and to be my son's good example - I put our items back, reminded him (and myself) they didn't have what we needed and we didn't require anything else. Walking up to the door required moving through the cash register areas, and a gal looked a little startled we were walking out empty-handed. Her eyes darted anxiously to the size of my purse (medium) and the shape of my coat (unflattering but not particularly concealing)- assessing if we had shoplifted, I suppose. I guess I didn't blame her for looking at us strangely; a year ago I wouldn't have considered myself capable of such restraint. I was briefly self-congratulatory.

X, however, was not deterred by my barrage of no's; en route to the car he mentioned that next time we could buy him a small toy truck, and "Just not tell Papa." Ouch.

Just a piece of work. But in progress. Or thereabouts.