Just When You Thought it Was Safe

By Kimberly Simmons-Merino

I am a mother of four: five-year-old boy-girl twins, a three-year-old daughter and a 20-month-old daughter. Any embarrassing moments, you ask? Too many to count. The last involved a small, private fundraiser on Cape Cod, an east coast gubernatorial candidate, and my vomiting twins. Enough said.

So, those embarrassment glands? The one’s which suffice your face with red and make your forehead blossom with sweat? I figured mine were used up, shriveled by constant abuse.No so.

Desperate for groceries, I hauled all four children to our local store. It had a play land for preschoolers. Inga was on duty. I felt a chill in my heart. I didn’t like Inga. She never smiled. Her large lips could be quickly pressed into a thin line. Her nose was permanently crinkled, as if she was sniffing an unpleasant odor.

In the past, she had paged me, in the middle of shopping, for some small issue. Recently, she’d measured Chase (girl twin) twice, to see if she was “too tall” to enter play land. And, still worse, she continually reminded me my twins were approaching the cut off date (turning six) for play land.

“You’ve got six weeks.”

“Five weeks and 4 days.”

No, I did not like Inga. I thought her gray bun was far too tight.

I deposited the twins and my three year old inside play land, nodded yes, I did know my twins would be 6 in three weeks, and sped off with my youngest. I shopped like the game show. I rushed down the aisles, threw in items, two at a time; skidded around corners, while Veronica squealed. I knew I could hear my name at any moment over the loudspeaker.

I was not disappointed. The cart was three quarters full when I heard IT.

“Ms. Merino, please return to Play Land immediately.”

Wearily, I turned my cart around, and started to maneuver my way back. Then, I heard something strange.

“Ms. Smith, please return to Play Land.”

“Ms. Gardner, please return to Play Land.”

“Ms. Jones, please return to Play Land.”

I took off in a dead run. I was not the first mother to arrive.

Never mind, Inga had waited for me. Alarmingly, she was armed with a spray bottle prominently displaying the universal sign of poison -- the skull and cross bones. She squared her shoulders like a fullback, pursed her lips and took a moment to solemnly look at each and every mother. Then, she fixed her full attention on me.

“Your youngest has had an accident. It’s considered a bio-hazard. We must,” she looked around again for emphasis, “evacuate Play Land.”

There was a collective groan.

Evacuate? Bio-hazard? Was a Hazmat team parachuting in? Aren’t we talking a little wetness here?

I looked at three-year-old Bresh, calmly playing while around her, a crowd of children clamored.

“Why do we have to leave?”

“What happened?”

“Who did it?”

My twins, always supportive, started screaming.

“Oh no Bresh, look what you did!"

“Oh man! Now we have to leave.”

Apparently, the other mothers had the same thoughts. No eye contact. No sympathetic looks. No kind words. Grudgingly, they burrowed out cubbyholes in their carts to accommodate their children and left; a virtual caravan of mothers, kids and groceries winding their ways back into the aisles.

Inga left us for last.

I paid for my groceries, and tried to beat a fast path out of there. Difficult, as the cart weighed 250 pounds, and was constantly wiggling. Bresh was perched high on the heaped groceries. Chase had wormed her way under the cart, her feet sticking out the back. Nick swung precariously side to side, on the end, ignoring Chase’s repeated screams he was stepping on her fingers. Veronica sat in the cart seat, pulling open my buttoned shirt.

On my way out, I passed Inga. She gave me the first ever glowing, genuine smile.

NOW (a poem)

By Kimberly Simmons Merino

Now, I hesitate when a jet flies overhead.
I hold my breath when I turn on the news.
I hear sirens and I listen for more.
When I say goodbye, I add, 'be safe', and I savor that moment.
I think twice before entering buildings.
I am wary of large crowds.
I look with suspicion at others, and hate myself for doing it.
I have lost peace. And I grieve its death.
This unease will last forever.
And yet, I have gained.

Now, I measure my joy by little things.
The jingle of keys in the door.
The sound of gulping milk, slamming doors, backyard squeals.
The whispers of sleep that ruffle my midnight.
The squishy treasures found in pockets.
I say 'I love you' more frequently.
I say 'I am sorry' more often.
I share more of myself.
I am grateful. And I celebrate.
May this fragile thanksgiving last forever.

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Copyright 2003 Kimberly Simmons-Merino