After failing to sleep during their scheduled nap time, Aiden, Micah and Leah fell asleep in the car, moments before we arrived at the Lionville Natural Pharmacy.
Thomas and Tabitha were reading library books, Parts and More Parts, both by Tedd Arnold, to be exact. They said they’d be “bored” in the pharmacy and asked if they could stay in the car to read.
Not wanting to wake up the other children, I agreed. After all, it was a breezy 49 degrees outside and the tiny parking lot was pretty empty – not many other customers – and I knew I wouldn’t take very long.
“Keep the closed,” I instructed. “I will only be a few minutes.”
(Ah, my famous last words.)
While I stood at the pick-up counter, I asked if the pharmacist could recommend a substitute for one of my supplements that was no longer being carried by my grocery store. I handed him the empty bottle. He flipped it over to evaluate the nutritional information.
The pharmacist opened his mouth to speak, and, at that very instant, a woman’s voice started yelling for help.
It was odd. The sound seemed to be coming from him, yet he was so masculine looking. It took me a confused second, but I realized that the sound was, in fact, coming from a woman, arms flailing, who was running up behind him. We both turned to look at her at the same time.
“HELP!” she yelled again. “There are children outside who are screaming and trying to get out of a green S.U.V.! Who would do such a thing to children?!!”
She had said “SUV” in a most punctuated fashion, as if it’s carbon footprint was making the situation even worse. As if the words “green” and SUV couldn’t possibly be in the same sentence together.
I smiled at the pharmacist.
In the sweetest voice I could muster, I said, “I’m sorry – will you please excuse me for a moment?”
I didn’t wait for him to answer. I bolted. I left him standing there with my grocery store supplement bottle in his hand.
When I opened the door to the pharmacy, their once muffled screams combined with the sound of the honking car alarm blasted into the pharmacy. Thomas was in the front seat, blocking the open drivers side door, arms and legs spread out, crying, screaming “STAY IN THE CAR, AIDEN!”
Meanwhile, Tabitha, Micah and Aiden were clawing at the windows (Aiden at the windshield, of course) desperately trying to get out. They looked like children trapped in a glass cage along with an invisible swarm of bees chasing after them.
Leah, who has a grotesque bloody, fat lip from losing a fight to the pantry door earlier today, and whose lower sad-lip couldn’t possible stick out any more if she wanted it to, was squirming to get out of her car seat. A giant tear was stuck right in the middle of each cheek.
I hit the “UNLOCK” button on my key chain and the extra-loud honking stopped – but the screams did not.
When they realized I was standing there, they all started blaming each other at once.
Calmly I asked for each of the children to tell me their version of what happened.
The shocked and appalled woman came out of the store, put her pointer finger up as if preparing to lecture me. Instead she just yelled “UUUUUUUGGGGGGGH!!!!” and stomped to her car.
Apparently, Aiden woke up from his momentary nap and freaked out. His demands to get out of the car woke up the other kids. When they realized that the child locks were engaged, panic set in. Aiden unbuckled himself and climbed from the way back seat, stepping on and hurting the middle seat kids, and managed to get to the front of the car to open the driver’s side door. He succeeded. Because the car was locked from the outside, even though the front doors are still able to open from the inside, it set off the car alarm.
They all quietly climbed out of the car. I kissed and hugged each one of them. I asked them to forgive me for leaving them in a situation that was too big for them to handle.
“I was so scared!” Tabitha sobbed.
What a horrible parent. Me – the one who could be a very rich insurance saleswoman because of my ability to foresee the worst case scenario in every situation – who, for once, chose to chalk it up to merely paranoia and pessimism that Aiden could possibly wake up from his nap and panic.
Silently, obediently, and still sniffling, they walked in a straight line behind me, all the way through to the back of the store by the pharmacy counter.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said to the pharmacist. “The three younger children had just fallen asleep as we got here, and the older two asked if they could stay in the car with them to finish reading some library books,” I explained, not sure how he would react.
The pharmacist said, in a quite serious tone that was fitting for masculine his face, “When I first started working here, many years ago, I used to bring my kids with me. I had a little play area set up for them over there.”
(Keep in mind, this sort of place isn’t like your average, antiseptic commercialized pharmacy. This is a “health food shop”, complete with herb bottles and apothecary jars behind the counter.)
“When my customers used to tell me how cute they were,” he continued, “do you know what I would say to them?”
My children were staring intently at this white-haired bearded man, hanging on his words as if he had great authority. The shook their little heads, eyes very wide.
“I’d tell them, ‘If you think they’re so cute, then take ’em with you! Bring ’em back when they’re 21 and I’m no longer responsible for them!'”
Tabitha gasped and firmly clenched the back of my bell-bottomed jeans.
The pharmacist chuckled, his eyes twinkling.