At the library.
I carry my books to the self-checkout machine and carefully align the magnetic strip of my library card with the scanner’s red beam of light. I wait with my books in my arms for the machine to check my card. I cross my fingers, because if the fines on the card exceed $5.00, I will have to wait in the lengthy line behind me to deal with an actual librarian in order to check out these books.
A little girl’s sad voice, “Mommy?”
I turn, because there is a certain “Mommy” that will always catch my attention.
A certain plaintive “Mommy.”
Not my child, I know that.
But I turn.
I see a woman step out of the lengthy library line, “Sweetie. Oh, I am so sorry.”
She walks to the little girl, who is standing alone just to the side of the library’s doors. She takes both of her daughter’s hands in her own. She kneels. Together they assess the situation, which is not apparent to me. The mother stands. She smiles down at her daughter, and then they walk between me and the curious line of library patrons to the bathroom, which is just to my side.
Just as the girl’s voice caught my attention, so too now does the tone of her mother’s voice.
Her voice is . . . sincere and apologetic and conversational . . . and just the right volume.
Not a library voice.
Not overly loud, either.
Just right for an apology to a child.
She is talking loudly enough for the benefit of the crowd, but she is not talking for the benefit of the crowd.
This is a private moment.
But it is not secret.
It touches me, this moment.
So many times I have seen mothers bend to whisper apologies into their children’s ears. It takes courage to apologize in a big-girl voice. Courage to own the mistake not just to the wronged child, but to the world.
Too few people understand that apologies should not be secrets.
I like this mother immediately.
“Sweetie, I am so sorry.”
“I’m sorry, Mommy.”
“It’s my fault. I didn’t listen. I told you to stand right there and wait for me as I talked to the librarian. You told me. I should have listened.”
“It’s OK, Mommy.”
“Thank you, sweetie . . . but it’s not. Mommy made a mistake. I am so sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
They speak to one another as though they are the only ones in the lobby.
Private and yet public.
The little girl’s hand in her mother’s, but not panicked.
Just seeking reassurance.
I like this mother.
I watch as the woman and her daughter walk, hand in hand, into the bathroom. It takes me a few minutes to check out my books and then wait for the machine to print me a receipt. I double-check the receipt, as I hate the lecture I get when the alarm sounds as I try to leave the library.
The librarian’s voice all helpful and condescending as she slams and slides each of my items against some magic magnetic strip below the counter, “If you’re going to use the self-checkout, you have to be sure you actually check out the materials.”
Hate that.
So I double-check my receipt to be sure the number of items I am holding matches the number of items printed on the slippery curled length of paper.
I linger for a moment in the lobby, fingering through the flyers on the table for an art show . . . a book reading . . . a poetry group. My thoughts wander for a moment as I remember Maj as a pudgy round toddler, not quite potty-trained. My memory becomes reality for a moment as I feel my daughter’s small soft hand in mine.
I feel her hand.
But her hand is not here.
I hear her plaintive voice, “Mommy?”
But she is not here.
Where did that time go?
I shake my head to loosen the grip of these memories.
Bring up my empty hands to swipe roughly at my eyes.
Pick up my pile of books.
The girl and her mother reemerge from the bathroom, their hands filled with paper towels.
I watch them.
“Mommy? Enough to clean up the mess?”
“Yes, I think so.”
I had not even noticed the puddle before, but now I watch as they bend together to clean up the mess. No shame. No embarrassment. A job to be done.
Mother and daughter work together.
A librarian leans to place a small bag-lined garbage can beside them, and into this container, the mother places the wet paper towels.
When they are done, the little girl holds out her hands for her mother to inspect, “I need washing, Mommy. I need sanbitwizer.”
Sanbitwizer? The cuteness!
“Not to hug me, you don’t,” and her mother pulls the little girl into an embrace.
The little girl giggles happily.
“We are a team, Anna.”
The little girl’s name is Anna.
“I love you, Mommy.”
And the woman’s name is, “Mommy.”
I love her.
