Peace of Mind for Fifty-Eight Cents

It is one of those moments where my children don't realize they are one screech away from being snatched bald-headed by their sleep-deprived mother. One of those moments where none of the six people in line behind me at the check out stand had better even THINK about rolling their beady eyeballs or I will snatch those out, too. It is one of those moments that is one snide comment away from becoming a story on the local evening news.


One of THOSE moments. Yeah.


I should have known better. The baby was a tad fussy and my oldest had decided he would have one of his split personality moments where he goes from being Mom's helper to his brother's tormentor because it's fun. But I thought, "No, we're by the Michael's, I have a gift card, we need those magnets and I have no idea when my children will allow me to leave my house again."


So we went to the craft store in search of magnets for a project I (optimistically) planned for James. Within seven minutes I had grabbed the cheapest magnets I could find and made for the cashier like a hooker for the church exit because two of my children were wailing like banshees. The line was short so I tossed my magnets up on the counter and whipped out my merchandise credit. We only had to keep it together for a minute longer. . . .


But that minute was stretching my last nerve to the snapping point. I wondered if it was too late to stick the two screaming little ones in the Halloween display as part of some hideous nightmare tableau. You know . . . two screaming babies with a sign painted to look like dripping blood: Welcome to Hell.


Anyway, we were almost done when there was some kind of problem with the store credit. The machine wouldn't read it and the cashier couldn't make out the numbers to type them. She huffed and puffed and I nearly blew her house down (I don't know what that means) because the line behind me was suddenly getting longer and I don't know if you know this or not, but THEY ARE NEVER IN A HURRY AT MICHAEL'S.


Just when I really thought I was about to lose it, the huffy puffy cashier got the register to take the card and I held onto my sanity with a tiny shred of a fingernail. Then the total came up.


I was fifty-eight cents short.


I didn't have any cash. Not even two pennies to rub together. So with the very last ounce of my willpower, I gritted my teeth and began digging for my credit card to put the stupid fifty-eight cent charge on it.


Then the lady behind me, a woman who clearly had children and grandchildren of her own, reached over and handed me a dollar. "Let me help," she said.


I did. And she did.


And just like that, fifty-eight cents turned my entire day around. Not just because something finally went right or because someone who could have huffed and puffed and rolled her eyes and shifted from foot to foot in annoyance over my screaming children and cash register issues . . . didn't.


It's because she took it a step further and she showed kindness and understanding.


And I felt so happy. I wasn't braced for the disdain of the people behind me anymore. My problem was solved with a simple little gesture and knowing someone wanted to do something nice for me . . .


Helped.


And I was kinder and more patient with my children for the rest of the day.


I keep trying to remember to pay it forward. Turns out fifty-eight cents pays off pretty big dividends.