One Tiny Concession

It's incremental sometimes, isn't it? The shift, Ms J, from not accepting something, to accepting it. It comes in tiny bits, but it does accumulate. Eventually.

I began my Christmas shopping this morning. I bought some socks for Dan and Scout. And some sweets to fill their Christmas stockings. I got Meagan a copy of Rolling Stone magazine featuring her idol, Billie Joe Armstrong on the cover. Mr. Armstrong is the lead vocalist of Meagan's favourite pop group - Green Day.

I don't much care for Christmas shopping, Ms J. I don't fancy shopping at all, really. I don't like the crowded, noisy shops and I nearly always feel as though I've wasted masses of time as I return, sometimes empty-handed to the car in the parking lot.

I haven't always been such a Scrooge. When the kids were little, I really enjoyed Christmas. But now, Meagan is thirteen. Dan is nineteen. They're too old for toys. Or the toys they want are too expensive. I don't know what on earth to buy for them. Rather than enjoy the shopping and wrapping and decorating inherent in the season, these things have lately begun to feel like unavoidable obligations that weight heavy on my soul. Where is Jesus in all this glittering tinsel? Where is peace? Not in the shopping mall, that's a fact. And what about Maxine? Am I supposed to buy gifts for her too? Is she part of my family now? Ugh!

So there I was this morning, pushing my shopping cart sullenly around Wal-mart and scowling at the morons who dared get in my way. I grabbed a big package of socks and tossed it into the empty cart. Black socks. Good enough for Dan, I thought. Yeah. He probably needs socks. He always needs socks.

A lady behind me bumped into my ankle with her cart.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I'm terribly sorry! Did I hurt you?"

I closed my eyes and shook my head slightly. Why don't people watch where they're going? Stupid idiot.

"No. I'm fine," I mumbled in a monotone.

I took a couple of quick steps, ostensibly to get away from her, and turned a corner at the end of the aisle. I stopped and blinked. I was staring at a rack of bath robes. Men's bath robes.

Kelly bought me a bath robe before Dan was born. It was summer, 1986. I remember she said I would need something soft to cuddle the baby. Velour. Royal blue. I still have it. I still wear it sometimes. And when I wear it, I think of my son. Tiny. Helpless. Perfect. How proud I was to hold him!

Cautiously, I approached the chrome rack with its hanging robes in various colours. My hand reached out to touch a blue one. Royal blue. It wasn't velour, but it was still very soft. The sign above the rack said, "SALE PRICED $39.95"

I wonder if Dan has ...?
I wonder if Dan would like ...?
He could probably use something soft like this ...
You know, to cuddle the ... baby.

I felt tears coming again. Stupid tears. What the hell's the matter with me? I'm behaving like a woman, I thought. Or a baby. And I looked away. Screw it. Where's the door? I'm outta here.

But I didn't leave. I didn't even move from the spot, Ms J. I just stood there frowning and chewing the inside of my cheek. I was blocking the aisle. Other shoppers had to detour around me, but I didn't care. I just stood there, waiting. Waiting for ... something. I don't know. A thought, perhaps. A sign. A message. Courage, maybe?

I stared at that stupid robe until I could no longer see it, until I had lost my focus entirely. I must have appeared like a zombie. Motionless. Staring but not seeing. And then it came to me. A thought occurred to me. And I spoke the words quietly.

"Well, you'll have to start somewhere. Out of the boat, then. Into the storm. Go for it. Don't be a chickenshit."

I bought the robe, Ms Journal. I bought that royal blue bath robe for my son. So he'll have something soft to wear when he cuddles his child.

As I drove home, I pictured myself explaining to Dan on Christmas. "Mum bought me a robe before you were born, Dan. She said I'd need something soft to cuddle you with. Now you'll need something soft ..."

In my mind's eye, I could see my son smiling. And I smiled too.

It's a start, Ms J. At least it's a start.

***