Be a Family of Helpers
Photo by Julie Miley Schlegel, of my knockout roses in the snow
My mind was like a pinball machine as I walked through Target this week, thoughts pinging around rapid-fire as I picked up what I needed. What a very strange week it’s been. Almost four inches of snow fell in my neighborhood for the first time I can remember. This isn’t a big deal if you live elsewhere, but in Houston, whose infrastructure is built for flooding and hurricanes, four inches of snow shut the city down.
We don’t have sleds, but children filled the city’s hills with boogie boards meant for the Galveston beach waves. We don’t have snow boots, but we all tramped outside in our rubber boots meant for rainy days and took pictures in the snow. We made hot stew in the crockpot, and my youngest stayed outside with his friends from sun up to sun down – wet, cold and happy.
When the snow melted, I went back to work to hear my patients’ stories of playing in the snow. Most of the children liked throwing snowballs at their parents and building snowmen. One toddler was upset that her green grass was gone, replaced by white snow (which is a whole article on its own, once I have a chance to ponder the human experience of comfort in that-which-we’re-used-to). A mother from Minnesota told me the winter weather reminded her how hard it is to dress children for snowy days.
These were the thoughts going through my head as I put the dog chews and Clorox wipes in my basket. Three bottles of laundry detergents for the buy-two-get-one-free sale. I put paper towels and toilet paper in the basket while singing “all you gotta do is just meet me at the apatue patue apatue patue” – the earworm by Rose and Bruno Mars.
At the checkout line, I loaded all of my stuff on the conveyor belt. I tried not to get annoyed with the woman in front of me, who couldn’t remember her password to get on the app where her gift card supposedly lay waiting. I flipped through social media and got another earworm stuck in my head as I watched a Buffalo Bills player dancing to “Mr. Brightside” by the Killers. Finally, the cashier had mercy on the shopper (and me) and found the gift card in her app.
It was finally my turn. Every time the cashier addressed me, she called me “Love,” or “Baby” or “Sweetheart,” which sent another pinball pondering why it didn’t bother me to be called these terms of endearment, but it does bother others, as I had discussed with a colleague the day before.
Distracted by all of these thoughts – what a weird week it’s been, and how one’s background determines how she interprets snow, or terms of endearment, or the state of the world – I joined the line of people, consumed by their own thoughts, pushing their carts out the exit door. I saw my 24-pack of Diet Coke teetering on the top of my basket and thought maybe this is the year I quit drinking Diet Coke.
I made it through the first automatic door, still on smooth carpet. As the second door opened and I faced the small metal bump leading to the outdoors, I thought, “the Diet Coke is probably going to fall,” but did I stop to stabilize it? I did not. I powered over the small metal bump and, predictably, the 24-pack of Diet Cokes fell to the concrete.
Annoyed with myself for pinball-thinking instead of tending to my basket, I heard the crash as the 24-pack hit the sidewalk. Embarrassed, I said out loud to the shoppers around me, “Ugh, I knew that would happen.” My face turned red as I scrambled to the front of my basket.
The silver box had burst open and 24 cans of Diet Coke rolled around the Target exit. I bent over and started picking them up one by one, tossing them into the full basket. A grandmother and her family began chasing the rolling cans for me. Another woman finished her conversation on the phone and stopped to pick up a couple of cans, too. A beautiful young woman, about my daughter’s age, said “Here’s a bag – it might be easier to put the cans in here.”
Finally, a child came running up to me from down the sidewalk, a big grin on his face. He handed me the last can of Diet Coke and walked away with his family, holding his dad’s hand.
Probably eight different people helped me pick up the cans. A slice of Houston, we were from all different backgrounds and ethnicities. I heard two other languages being spoken in this group of eight people. No one knew a thing about me, and no one seemed to care. Their help reminded me that people generally are good. People generally want to help each other.
Though we all walk around the store (and life) as individuals, stuck in our own heads with our own swirling thoughts, when something goes wrong, people usually step up. We live in community as social creatures, and we need each other.
Most of all, I remember the smile on the child’s face as he brought me the last can of Diet Coke. Within his family of helpers, he didn’t have to be told what to do as the cans rolled. He looked at what the adults around him were doing, and he jumped into action to help.
I knew this would be a rambling article, just like my thoughts have been this week. But the point is this. The kids are watching us – they’re watching how we treat people, how we help people. And they will behave in the world as we behave in the world. Be a family of helpers, so your kids will be helpers, too.
Photo by Julie Miley Schlegel: the Diet Coke can fiasco
The advice and opinions herein are by no means meant to be a substitute for professional medical advice. Please contact your personal physician, mental health provider or health care professional for medical advice. Opinions are my own.