The Price

I went back to that snobby little yarn shop closest to my house today. I despise going in there, and I wouldn't have at all, but I needed a skein of yarn from the same dye lot as one that I had bought there a while ago.

As usual, when I walked in, the owner was sitting behind her tall counter and didn't even acknowledge my entrance. She didn't even look up. That is so wrong on so many levels.

There was a group of three knitting snobs at the table in the center of the store. They looked up as if I were intruding on their private party. Don't worry ladies---I have to pick up ZimDee from preschool in a little bit and couldn't join you if I wanted to. I was carrying Sproutie in my arms, and wouldn't you know it--the yarn that I needed was right by the table. Oh well. I'll just pick up what I need and go.

So the snob ladies start remarking to me about how cute Sproutie is. Even mean snobby ladies can't resist the charms of my youngest. Then they start saying to each other, WHILE I'M STILL STANDING RIGHT THERE BUT AS IF I WASN'T THERE AND COULDN'T HEAR THEM (sorry to shout--I'm getting worked up about this again) they start saying how babies are so cute but they are so glad that they're done having theirs, oh, but Reginald wants another, but there's things I can do about that, you know, because there's no way I'm going through the snotty poopy diaper mess of life all over again, because having babies around just really cramps your style, you know, you can't shop and they make messes all over the leather seats in your Mercedes and drool all over your Gucci bag. And what about the stretch marks? It's just a price I'm not willing to pay, cluck, cluck, cluck.

Oh. My. God. How can anyone be so insensitive? What is it about some people that they are so insecure about themselves that they feel like they have to tear someone else down in order for them to feel better?

I'm standing right there holding my drooling baby and he's cooing at me and giving me the biggest crooked smile I've ever seen in my life, and those mean-hearted ladies just disappear. All that matters is me and my sweet tiny little baby boy. And you know what? I love these days of drool and diapers. Of being the most important person in the world (for just a short while) to this tiny little being. Of walking into a room and him smiling and kicking because he's so excited to see me. Me! Little old me.

So you can keep your expensive (*cough* overpriced *cough*) cars and your drool-free (*cough* unloved *cough*) bags. It's just for show anyway. And while you're at it, keep your mean-spirited comments to yourself. You want what I have, this sweet unconditional love, and since you don't have it, you feel the need to tear it down. You're only hurting yourself inside. Me, I'll be mildly annoyed for a few minutes (then I'll blog about it). Then I'll forget about it once I squeeze that baby, and go pick up his brother from preschool, who runs into my arms like he hasn't seen me for years and years even though I just dropped him off two hours ago. Then we're going to go get an ice cream cone and sit on the porch swing in the sun and sing silly nonsense songs and laugh and laugh.

I love my life. Could it be simpler? Cleaner? Quieter? Of course it could. But I'd have to miss all the giggles and tickles, first steps, first words, first days of school, first loves. And that, my friends, is the price I'm not willing to pay.