Busted

The kids and I stayed with my in-laws in Brigham City while Doug went to San Antonio, Texas for a few days. Yesterday I was able to leave baby Nathan with Grandpa and escape to Deseret Industries, the local thrift store with James and Daphne. It’s a small store (but with lots of treasures) so I didn’t mind letting them pick through the second, third, and fourth hand toys while I did the same in the housewares, books, and furniture sections. The kids were always in sight and hearing distance. I say this to reassure you of my mothering sense, a point you will hopefully not doubt as you continue reading.
After an hour I was pushing my luck. I could have stayed for at least another thirty minutes but James and Daphne were now hungry and tired. I began to put away the strands of costume beads I was sorting through when Daphne spotted a “teeny, tiny necklace” that was a “must-have” for the toddler “season.” I showed her the faux pearl necklace I was already buying for the dress-up box but she wanted none of it. She wanted the “teeny, tiny necklace” and in a display of passion, quite possibly unprecedented until that moment, which is saying a lot, Daphne screamed for the necklace. For anyone who hasn’t heard my beautiful daughter scream, I’ll just say Daphne has a promising career in Opera, on Broadway, in a cheerleading squad, or as the female lead in B slasher movies. Short of pulling out her vocal cords, I could only take my basket to the front checkout and remove my daughter with all speed from the store. (It was not an option to leave the basket behind, I’d found some very cool stuff.)
As I walked to the front of the store I steeled myself against the barrage of Tssk, Tssks coming from perfect-parent thrift store patrons. Please, this was DI not the Met. Daphne clawed at my clothes, hung on my legs, twisted my arm but I kept my cool as I unloaded my items at the checkstand. Unfortunately the checker gal was confused by a few of the items and only spoke broken English. It was too much to understand while Daphne screamed and threw things from the checkstand to the floor. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” I said and hefted my daughter under arm and made for the parking lot.
It took about one minute to strap the flailing toddler into her carseat. I then started the car and pulled into the red no-parking zone directly in front of the open doors of Deseret Industries. I rolled down the windows of my mother-in-law’s sedan, turned off the engine, walked 15 feet through the open glass doors, swiped my debit card, pressed OK, picked up my bags, walked 15 feet back through the open glass doors to the illegally parked car, buckled James into his seat and got the hel…heck out of there.
By the time we returned to Munga’s and Grandpa’s house Daphne’s tantrum had mercifully abated. We ate some lunch and while Munga helped Daphne into her princess dress and jewels, I began to clear the kitchen counters. I was thus dutifully occupied when my father-in- law came looking for me. “There’s an officer outside looking for the parent of the little girl who was left screaming in a car.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I said following him out the door. Sure enough, there was a uniformed officer investigating the report of a little girl left screaming in a parked car for 20 minutes. I was too annoyed to be serious and flippantly explained to the officer the volume of my daughter’s voice, her rude manners, and the other particulars of the situation. As for 20 minutes of terrifying solitude in a hot locked car, it was three minutes from the time I marched out of the store with my obnoxious three year old, practically parked in the store 15 feet from the debit card reader, until I was back in the vehicle driving.
As I clarified the gross inaccuracy of my unknown accuser, Daphne made an appearance. Adorned in finery and outfitted with unconcerned confidence she presented a picture of a truly neglected and abused child. With a bit of sarcasm my father-in-law introduced Daphne to the policeman. The officer looked at her, then at me and her grandparents felt dumb and decided we didn’t look like folk not inclined to chaining children in the basement. He made a show of taking my name and spelling Daphne’s name correctly before he mumbled that sometimes people exaggerate and really, it was only 70 degrees outside so it wasn’t like she was going to bake.
Nope, my daughter wasn’t in danger of anything but strained vocal cords. Thanks for the concern.


It was an impossible situation to win. I was criticized for not silencing the child. Yet, it was impossible to reason with a three year old in tantrum. But if I coerced her into silence, it would be abusive. Apparently, however, removing Daphne from the scene was irresponsible and abusive as well. I’m sure the person who took my license plate and called the police had noble intentions, but please, it didn’t take much observation to see the only thing I stood guilty of was staying at a store too long with a tired and hungry toddler.