(This is a fictional story written by my mother Linda when I was 4 years old)
Amazing as this dead-body syndrome is, the equally incredible phenomenon is that, if there is another child along, even though that child may be the sweetest 3-year old born to date, even though she may be the essence of cooperation and cheerfulness nap or no nap, even though that other child was a bubbling bottle of good humor a moment ago, once the dead-body syndrome sets in, that second child immediately contracts it. There is no reversing the simultaneous contagion process. The attempted errand in the store is doomed.
This was the condition of Susan's children as she did an about-face and retreated through the open doorway of the store into the blinding sunlight of the shopping-center mall. Even as her eyes squinted against the bright light bouncing off the long stretch of concrete and rebounding against the storefront windows, the frantic expression in them was evident. She was beginning to notice a troublesome little ache in her back.
Once outside the store, Susan stopped for a moment trying to keep hold of her senses, her offspring, and her parcels--two pairs of shorts, four T-shirts, and sneakers, sizes 8½ and 2. (Foolhardy for you to try to fit in hosiery on top of all that, Susan. Courageous, but foolhardy.)
A faint although definite glimmer of panic washed across Susan's face, but she still had enough control left to try to energize the two limp bodies beside her. Her eyes darted down each side of the mall while her mind clicked off the options open to her and the consequences of each.
"Record shop, maternity clothing, Hallmark. Stop. Alternative One--bribe each child with a Snoopy concoction. Action: requires entering store with glass objects on display shelves (risky); requires decision process for each child (stressful); possibility of substantial dollar investment (negative). Alternative One rejected."
Continuing on her eye search, she transferred her tunnel vision to the other side of the mall.
"Fabrics, jewelry, cafeteria. Stop. Alternative Two--when in doubt, feed. Action: requires lifting 3-year-old over counter to see food (back already hurts); 6-year-old may want an entire dinner (ugh!); requires eventual balancing of tray while maneuvering to table (courting calamity). Alternative Two rejected."
With a look of strained determination, Susan stretched her eyesight to its limit along the shady side of the mall and a little cheese shop sign sparked a fuzzy recollection in her mind.
"Isn't there an ice-cream counter in that cheese shop? Granted, it's a strange place for an ice-cream counter, but just strange enough to stand out and definitely made to order for this dilemma. Don't even bother to analyze Alternative Three--proceed in direction of cheese shop!"
The lure of ice-cream was enough to get the children transported down the mall to the cheese shop where they peered in through the window and witnessed ice-cream treats under assembly: Out of the freezer comes a package on a stick. The paper is zipped off the package revealing a yellow-white ice-cream bar. The bar is dipped into dark brown syrupy chocolate, held up to D-R-R-I-P, then quickly plunged into a mound of finely chopped peanuts, rolled over, and presented to the customer.
As Susan and the children watched the procedure, one ice-cream bar slipped through the fingers of the girl-behind-the-counter and was lost in the liquid chocolate. After a surprised exclamation and a frenetic search, the girl-behind--the-counter used a long ladle to retrieve the sunken bar. She then fished a newly wrapped bar from the freezer and began the dipping process again.
Eager to get their energy and spirits up to standard, Susan nudged the children into the store. Once inside, her senses immediately went into a gymnastic work-out, all busy at one time taking in the full situation. Her eyes focused in on the menu: "Hand-dipped ice-cream bars, frozen bananas, cones (vanilla, blackberry, peach, chocolate), sodas (same flavors), carrot cake (carrot cake??)", while her hands held onto children, purse, parcels, while her ears picked up on the verbal exchange between the second customer ahead of her and the girl-behind-the-counter. "Oh! Remember, I said that I didn't want nuts on my ice-cream bar," from the customer.
"Oh yes. Sorry about that," from the flustered girl-behind-the-counter as she started preparing a new bar for the customer. Susan filed a mental memo: "Girl-behind-the counter is new. Be very specific about order."
With menu and memo in mind, Susan's eyes scanned the store. A handful of shoppers shuffled about the cheese section; seats surrounding several little round tables were filled with cone crunchers and soda sippers; the store manager polished the cash register as she nonchalantly checked on the ice-cream assembly and the girl-behind-the-counter.
The children meanwhile were squirming and poking and tugging at Susan's arms. The sight and scent of ice cream had neutralized the dead-body syndrome to the point that the children were at least standing erect, but their whine volume was increasing and the delay ahead of them was causing tension. Susan felt the familiar but troublesome little ache in her back increasing. She turned her full attention to the children, explained the options available, noted their orders, and turned back to the girl-behind-the-counter.
"We'd like one single-dip vanilla cone and one chocolate bar, without the nuts, please."
"Okay. One single vanilla, one bar without nuts."
The girl-behind-the-counter began the motions on the cone while four weary eyes watched her. Finally, the cone went up and over the counter and down into the grasp of the 6-year-old. "Y-U-U-CKI This ice-cream tastes awful!" His comment erupted at above-normal conversation level.
Susan, her antennae momentarily diverted as she was ordering the ice-cream, abruptly became aware of the line of people forming behind her and the turned heads of the crunchers and sippers. The panic expression flitted swiftly across her face.
"That's not ice cream, that's frozen yogurt. The vanilla does taste a little strong at first. We have frozen yogurt cones and ice-cream bars," enlightenment from the manager expressed at a pause in her polishing and in a 'what-else-would-you-expect-from-an ice-cream-counter-in-a-cheese-shop' tone.
Susan's ounce of control was dwindling faster and faster as the store became more crowded and the children more desperate and her back more tense. Ever mindful of the slim wire the three of them were walking, she consoled the offended 6-year-old and reordered.
"That's okay, I'll eat the cone. Will you make that two ice-cream bars, both without nuts, please?"
Perhaps sensing the urgency of these two particular ic-cream bars, the girl-behind-the-counter hustled through her assembly routine. Both children had their noses pressed against the glass, closely observing the process, anticipating receipt of their treats. Susan kept a watchful eye on the proceedings.
The girl-behind-the-counter took two bars from the freezer and quickly unwrapped them. She then grasped one bar in each hand and simultaneously submersed them into the chocolate bath. Mouths watering, the children watched as the two bars emerged and D-R-R-I-P-P-E-D, D-R-R-I-P-P-E-D, D-R-R-I-P-P-E-D.
And then, in the same speck of time, three separate actions occurred. The children's faces froze in horror, the two chocolate bars were unwittingly guided into the pile of peanuts, and Susan, whose control at last had completely vanished, shrieked, "NO NUTS!!!"
Susan's shriek succeeded in attracting the attention of the girl-behind-the-counter as well as everyone in line behind her, all of the crunchers and sippers, and the shoppers. The manager even missed a stroke in her polishing.
There was a short passage of time that didn't register with Susan. Her finely attuned sensory system clicked off and a protective cocoon settled over her mind, blocking out all of the eyes that were on her.
After a few murky minutes, Susan found herself outside the store and seated on a bench, the 6-year-old to her left, the 3-year-old to her right. Clutched tightly in the fist of each child was a nutless chocolate-coated vanilla ice-cream bar.
As her trance-like state slowly faded, Susan's mind recognized that the ache in her back was gone and her eyes gradually encompassed two cherub faces grinning up at her. Susan's mouth twitched a little at the corners, then spread into a wide smile, and the three of them headed for home, giggling.
Mom died this past weekend. The memorial for mom will be held Saturday, December 2, 2017, Crown Hill in Wheatridge, CO, 10:30am - see here.
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| Linda in 1978 |
The fact is, although it's not documented in any scientific
journals, that if you take an average, healthy, energetic 6-year-old child into
a woman's clothing store, that child will instantly and infuriatingly turn into
a dead body. In fact, that very same child, the one who just one hour ago
consumed two granola bars, a yogurt push-up, and a glass of grape juice and
couldn't possibly be hungry, the one who can play with his friends all day and
as they're walking out the door to go home for dinner ask, "who can I play
with?", the one who has the patience to watch a marathon showing of
cartoons on Saturday morning without changing positions, that very same child
has been known to put on the dead-body routine upon setting even one foot in a
department store, a shoe store, any store that doesn't have toys or
motorcycles.
Not that he will actually fall on the floor. No, at six years of age he's been socially
programmed out of that behavior. He simply becomes a mound of Jell-O held
together solely by the fibers in his clothing. The sturdy, limber frame that
yesterday afternoon was leaping off the playhouse roof a la Superman, is suddenly
transformed into arms and legs connected by overly cooked spaghetti. The head
droops down on the chest, sometimes over to one side; the tongue often protrudes
slightly; the eyes are fixed and glazed over. The shoulders sag and the arms
become lead weights. The legs still move, but with a forced, irregular jerk;
the knees do not function. A high-pitched whine is emitted from the lips,
audible especially to the mother. This solitary vocalization evolves, usually
at about 40-second intervals, into a pseudo-word which sounds something like, "MA-A-A-AH-AHM!"Amazing as this dead-body syndrome is, the equally incredible phenomenon is that, if there is another child along, even though that child may be the sweetest 3-year old born to date, even though she may be the essence of cooperation and cheerfulness nap or no nap, even though that other child was a bubbling bottle of good humor a moment ago, once the dead-body syndrome sets in, that second child immediately contracts it. There is no reversing the simultaneous contagion process. The attempted errand in the store is doomed.
This was the condition of Susan's children as she did an about-face and retreated through the open doorway of the store into the blinding sunlight of the shopping-center mall. Even as her eyes squinted against the bright light bouncing off the long stretch of concrete and rebounding against the storefront windows, the frantic expression in them was evident. She was beginning to notice a troublesome little ache in her back.
Once outside the store, Susan stopped for a moment trying to keep hold of her senses, her offspring, and her parcels--two pairs of shorts, four T-shirts, and sneakers, sizes 8½ and 2. (Foolhardy for you to try to fit in hosiery on top of all that, Susan. Courageous, but foolhardy.)
A faint although definite glimmer of panic washed across Susan's face, but she still had enough control left to try to energize the two limp bodies beside her. Her eyes darted down each side of the mall while her mind clicked off the options open to her and the consequences of each.
"Record shop, maternity clothing, Hallmark. Stop. Alternative One--bribe each child with a Snoopy concoction. Action: requires entering store with glass objects on display shelves (risky); requires decision process for each child (stressful); possibility of substantial dollar investment (negative). Alternative One rejected."
Continuing on her eye search, she transferred her tunnel vision to the other side of the mall.
"Fabrics, jewelry, cafeteria. Stop. Alternative Two--when in doubt, feed. Action: requires lifting 3-year-old over counter to see food (back already hurts); 6-year-old may want an entire dinner (ugh!); requires eventual balancing of tray while maneuvering to table (courting calamity). Alternative Two rejected."
With a look of strained determination, Susan stretched her eyesight to its limit along the shady side of the mall and a little cheese shop sign sparked a fuzzy recollection in her mind.
"Isn't there an ice-cream counter in that cheese shop? Granted, it's a strange place for an ice-cream counter, but just strange enough to stand out and definitely made to order for this dilemma. Don't even bother to analyze Alternative Three--proceed in direction of cheese shop!"
The lure of ice-cream was enough to get the children transported down the mall to the cheese shop where they peered in through the window and witnessed ice-cream treats under assembly: Out of the freezer comes a package on a stick. The paper is zipped off the package revealing a yellow-white ice-cream bar. The bar is dipped into dark brown syrupy chocolate, held up to D-R-R-I-P, then quickly plunged into a mound of finely chopped peanuts, rolled over, and presented to the customer.
As Susan and the children watched the procedure, one ice-cream bar slipped through the fingers of the girl-behind-the-counter and was lost in the liquid chocolate. After a surprised exclamation and a frenetic search, the girl-behind--the-counter used a long ladle to retrieve the sunken bar. She then fished a newly wrapped bar from the freezer and began the dipping process again.
Eager to get their energy and spirits up to standard, Susan nudged the children into the store. Once inside, her senses immediately went into a gymnastic work-out, all busy at one time taking in the full situation. Her eyes focused in on the menu: "Hand-dipped ice-cream bars, frozen bananas, cones (vanilla, blackberry, peach, chocolate), sodas (same flavors), carrot cake (carrot cake??)", while her hands held onto children, purse, parcels, while her ears picked up on the verbal exchange between the second customer ahead of her and the girl-behind-the-counter. "Oh! Remember, I said that I didn't want nuts on my ice-cream bar," from the customer.
"Oh yes. Sorry about that," from the flustered girl-behind-the-counter as she started preparing a new bar for the customer. Susan filed a mental memo: "Girl-behind-the counter is new. Be very specific about order."
With menu and memo in mind, Susan's eyes scanned the store. A handful of shoppers shuffled about the cheese section; seats surrounding several little round tables were filled with cone crunchers and soda sippers; the store manager polished the cash register as she nonchalantly checked on the ice-cream assembly and the girl-behind-the-counter.
The children meanwhile were squirming and poking and tugging at Susan's arms. The sight and scent of ice cream had neutralized the dead-body syndrome to the point that the children were at least standing erect, but their whine volume was increasing and the delay ahead of them was causing tension. Susan felt the familiar but troublesome little ache in her back increasing. She turned her full attention to the children, explained the options available, noted their orders, and turned back to the girl-behind-the-counter.
"We'd like one single-dip vanilla cone and one chocolate bar, without the nuts, please."
"Okay. One single vanilla, one bar without nuts."
The girl-behind-the-counter began the motions on the cone while four weary eyes watched her. Finally, the cone went up and over the counter and down into the grasp of the 6-year-old. "Y-U-U-CKI This ice-cream tastes awful!" His comment erupted at above-normal conversation level.
Susan, her antennae momentarily diverted as she was ordering the ice-cream, abruptly became aware of the line of people forming behind her and the turned heads of the crunchers and sippers. The panic expression flitted swiftly across her face.
"That's not ice cream, that's frozen yogurt. The vanilla does taste a little strong at first. We have frozen yogurt cones and ice-cream bars," enlightenment from the manager expressed at a pause in her polishing and in a 'what-else-would-you-expect-from-an ice-cream-counter-in-a-cheese-shop' tone.
Susan's ounce of control was dwindling faster and faster as the store became more crowded and the children more desperate and her back more tense. Ever mindful of the slim wire the three of them were walking, she consoled the offended 6-year-old and reordered.
"That's okay, I'll eat the cone. Will you make that two ice-cream bars, both without nuts, please?"
Perhaps sensing the urgency of these two particular ic-cream bars, the girl-behind-the-counter hustled through her assembly routine. Both children had their noses pressed against the glass, closely observing the process, anticipating receipt of their treats. Susan kept a watchful eye on the proceedings.
The girl-behind-the-counter took two bars from the freezer and quickly unwrapped them. She then grasped one bar in each hand and simultaneously submersed them into the chocolate bath. Mouths watering, the children watched as the two bars emerged and D-R-R-I-P-P-E-D, D-R-R-I-P-P-E-D, D-R-R-I-P-P-E-D.
And then, in the same speck of time, three separate actions occurred. The children's faces froze in horror, the two chocolate bars were unwittingly guided into the pile of peanuts, and Susan, whose control at last had completely vanished, shrieked, "NO NUTS!!!"
Susan's shriek succeeded in attracting the attention of the girl-behind-the-counter as well as everyone in line behind her, all of the crunchers and sippers, and the shoppers. The manager even missed a stroke in her polishing.
There was a short passage of time that didn't register with Susan. Her finely attuned sensory system clicked off and a protective cocoon settled over her mind, blocking out all of the eyes that were on her.
After a few murky minutes, Susan found herself outside the store and seated on a bench, the 6-year-old to her left, the 3-year-old to her right. Clutched tightly in the fist of each child was a nutless chocolate-coated vanilla ice-cream bar.
As her trance-like state slowly faded, Susan's mind recognized that the ache in her back was gone and her eyes gradually encompassed two cherub faces grinning up at her. Susan's mouth twitched a little at the corners, then spread into a wide smile, and the three of them headed for home, giggling.
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