Back to the green dress. A definite maybe. I sling it over my arm and pause at a chunky gray top. If I find the right skirt….

A familiar cry. I grab the top and stride to the front. The blanket is on the floor, and the baby is wriggling irately in the carriage. Please, baby, please, I NEED this time. I settle him again. Paci back in, blankie back on, shush shush, rock-rock-rock. Blissful quiet resumes.

It lasts until I reach the rack again. Sigh. I go back, unbrake the carriage, and wheel my baby with one hand while riffling through clothing with the other. Amidst much frantic rocking, a floral set joins the try-on pile, along with a shimmery creation that the saleswoman assures me looks much better on.

I’m not done browsing, but Baby quite clearly is. To the fitting rooms then. I park him across a mirror and hope for the best. Green dress first.

Waaaaaail.

I try the pacifier. Baby is having none of it. I sit him up and hand him a cookie. Ten minutes, just ten minutes!

Back to the mirror. The green dress is okay. Not exciting, just okay.

Next is the shimmery piece. It does not look better on, a fact the others shoppers can attest to as I emerge to tend to my prince yet again.

I retrieve a soggy half of a cookie from the stroller seat. Baby studies my offering suspiciously, then flings it downs and amps up the protest.

I’m sweating. Five minutes, it’s my one chance, pleeeeease!

I replace the cookie with a bag of Bamba. Baby approves. Phew. I dash back into the fitting room. Maybe he’ll be calm long enough for me to get Floral Set on and off.

Turns out, that’s easier said than done. Floral is one of those zipper-less contraptions. It’s deceptively easy to slide into, but requires Houdini-level machinations to wriggle out of. I realize I’m stuck just as, outside, Baby realizes I’m gone.

I struggle. Baby whines.

I squirm. Baby cries.

I panic. Baby hollers. And hollers.

I finally make it out of the room, sheitel considerably worse for the wear. Baby is in hysterics, smashed Bamba littering his hair and the floor.

The gray sweater waits patiently on the hook. Well. There’s no way I’m finding a skirt now.

Baby extends his arms pitifully. I throw the green dress over the stroller handle — whatever, it’ll grow on me, clean up the mess, and trudge to checkout, baby in hand.

There’s another customer there. She eyes me critically as I one-handedly fish through my bag for wipes. “You know,” she says, “I don’t enjoy shopping while hearing other people’s babies cry.”

There are many things I could say to her, many things I would say. But I’m too weary to open my mouth, and too stunned to collect my words. I numbly take my receipt and wheel a teary-eyed baby and crumb-laden stroller out into the street.

The green dress never does grow on me.

I

t’s an overcast Monday, dreary and cold. Even the clouds seem sluggish, emitting a half-hearted drizzle like they can’t be bothered to properly rain. I don’t relish going out in this weather, but I’ve got a million little errands that can’t wait. So I bundle up my baby, grab an umbrella, and hit the avenue.

It’s windy and chilly and my sheitel is frizzy, but I’m thankful the rain is mostly holding off as I slog from store to store, checking items off my list.

I almost make it. Eight minutes and one last errand from home, the skies finally open up.

I resign myself to a very wet walk home as I push open the door to the shoe repair, struggling to maneuver my stroller into the tiny space. I manage, just about. The carriage takes up every inch of the store, so much that I can’t even close the door fully. Which isn’t a huge deal, it’s a quick stop.

I’m just about finishing up when a woman appears at the door. And stops short. Because, well, it’s quite evidently impossible to get in. Oh gosh. I peer into the inner room. Where is the guy with my insoles?

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, frantically jiggling my carriage this way and that, “I’ll just….”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait outside.”

It’s pouring outside. But she backs out and waits serenely in the rain as I finally get my insoles and scramble to vacate the store.

“I’m so sorry,” I apologize again as we cross paths on my way out.

She smiles, a real smile, the sort that lights up the face. “It’s okay,” she assures me cheerfully. And I look at her warm brown eyes, and I know it really is. “My baby is eighteen,” she confides. “But I well remember those days.”

There are many things I could say to her, many things I should say. But I’m silent, taken aback by this show of empathy from a woman who had every right to be annoyed. I return her smile, click my umbrella open, and head out into the rain.

Eight minutes later I reach home, cold, wet, and happy.

I never meet either woman again. But I think of them often as I cross paths with other women — strangers who flit through my life on the streets, in the stores. Strangers who may inconvenience me, unwittingly make my day just a tad less pleasant.

And maybe, before I react, I’ll remember an ill-fated green dress, and a sunny walk home in the rain.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 936)