I’ve got a pair of regular customers who are just absolutely adorable: a father and his little girl. Their usual order is a small cheese pizza for the little one.

One day, the father called in and ordered his daughter’s usual pizza. He then asked if we had mushrooms, intending to order a second pizza for himself that day. However, the little girl overheard the dreaded M-word uttered from her father’s mouth. From my end of the phone, I heard this typically angelic child absolutely melt down crying at the thought of having mushrooms on her pizza, not understanding at all that it was never for her. Her father interrupted himself upon hearing this, as he is absolutely wrapped around this girl’s sweet little finger, and told me never mind the second pizza.

That is when I knew what I had to do. I prepared two pizzas: one mushroom and one cheese. I paid for the mushroom one myself.

They came in, I handed them both pizzas, and this man started absolutely sobbing in my lobby. Apparently, they were tight on money this month, and this was the act of kindness that turned his whole outlook around.

He thanked me profusely, and a few weeks later came back with a teddy bear and flowers for me, all smiles. This time, it was my turn to cry, as customers had been berating me all week and I was beginning to feel really underappreciated. 

They come back regularly still, and his girl is just as sweet as ever — no tears. They’re still some of my favorite customers in my fifteen years of pizza.

When I was a teenager and didn’t have quite all my common sense in place yet, my uncle was hosting a BIG party because a notable family member was turning eighty. Once the house was fully prepared, I thought that the best way to distract the kiddos and get all their wiggles out was to play my Tossing Game with them.

In the back room, I put a mattress on the floor, piled all the pillows in the house on top, and one at a time began to spin each toddler cousin, nephew, and assorted hanger-on in a big circle going, “One… two… three!”, before throwing them into the pile.

The kiddos love the Tossing Game. They’d crash, clamber out, and jump right back in line for another turn.

It took me a while to realise that there were suddenly MORE kids than I remembered throwing. Like, a lot more. Guests had started to arrive, and every. Single. Little. Kid. Immediately found their way to the back room to join in. I’d gone from seven to twenty-one.

Now, it took a bit, but then Teenager [Me] realised that maybe throwing STRANGERS’ kids might be a problem.

To solve this, I promptly went out of the back room with the gaggle of twenty toddlers to loudly ask the party at large:

Me: “Hey, is it okay if I throw your kids at a wall?”

At that point, the eighty-year-old guest of honour decided that rather than socialising with all his friends, HE’D like to throw the kids at the wall, too, thanks.

I am homeless. No, I don’t drink, and no, I don’t do drugs. I am trying to get a job, but finding employment when homeless is not an easy task. (Something I need to get out of the way.)

Every few days, I take a trip to the library to charge my phone and batteries so I can keep my phone on and working. I typically spend three or four hours in a quiet corner of the library glued to the power outlet.

Today, I had a cute and then frustrating interaction between a little kid and her parent.

I walked through the sliding doors of the library and wandered around looking for an open chair near an outlet to sit and charge.

I heard this little voice shout out in excitement and glee, “Santa!” and pitter-patters of little boots running over to me.

Now, I get it. I really do. A big bearded man dressed in red, with big black bags and an oversized backpack strapped over his shoulders — any little kid would easily mistake me for the big jolly man.

The kid stopped dead in front of me. She couldn’t have been more than four years old, and she was clenching her fists tight, trembling in excitement.

She looked up at me, her eyes opened wide.

Kid: “HI, SANTA!”

That made me smile, and I laughed.

Her mother came running over and scooped her child up.

Mother: *To me* “I’m sorry!” *To her kid, walking away* “That’s not Santa!”

The entire interaction put a smile on my face, but here’s where it went downhill.

I found an open seat and plugged in my phone to charge and do my thing.

The little kid and her parent were on the other side of the library, but the kid was still brimming with excitement. I could see her head poke out of the bookshelf, staring at me every so often.

That went on for about half an hour.

Until, I guess, the mother couldn’t handle her child anymore, and she came over to me.

Mother: “You need to leave and find a different spot. You’re distracting my daughter.”

Me: “Hey, I’m sorry, but this is the only open space with an outlet. I need to charge my stuff.”

Mother: *Very sarcastically* “Oh? Why’s that?”

Me: “Because I don’t have one. I am homeless.”

I thought that was the end of it because her face went red and she walked away.

But no, she came back.

Mother: “I went to the front desk to ask if there are any outlets outside and if it’s okay for you to use them. They said they’re okay with you using those outlets, so you can go out there.”

Seriously!

Me: “So, you don’t want me in the library, a public institution, to charge my stuff? You would rather me sit outside in the cold just because your kid thinks I’m Santa? Really, that’s it. Well, ho ho ho, Merry Christmas to you. I’m going to stay right here until my batteries are charged.”

The lady went to the front desk, and I listened in because I figured I was screwed, and I was getting kicked out.

Mother: “Can you tell that guy to leave?”

Library Staff: “We can’t unless he is intentionally making a disturbance or being violent or threatening.”

I have been there before; I keep to myself and don’t bother anyone.

So, yeah, I was there for four hours. I didn’t move or get kicked out. My things are charged and good for the next few days.

Honestly, it wasn’t the worst interaction I have ever experienced. At least she was somewhat polite. I don’t think she was being malicious at all; I think, in her mind, she was doing a good deed.

This story reminded me of a story about my dad. A few weeks after my dad was born, my grandma worried that her baby didn’t seem to be looking at her right. So, doing what any worried mother would do in the days before Web MD, she took him to the doctor. The first eye doctor they saw told my grandma that nothing was wrong. She still thought that my dad was looking at her funny, so she took him to another eye doctor. This eye doctor also didn’t find anything, but my grandma was not convinced. She KNEW that something was wrong. 

My grandma was done with these doctors and decided that she would stop just going to random child eye doctors; she would find the best eye doctor in the area. If even the best eye doctor couldn’t find something wrong, maybe my dad was okay and not looking at her funny. After doing some research, she was able to figure out who the best eye doctor in the area was and called to make an appointment. However, the earliest they could see my dad would be in six months. The eye doctor didn’t even normally see infants anyway — only adults. 

My grandma didn’t know what to do. Six months was too long. So, she called her mom and asked for advice.

Grandma’s Mom: “If you are certain that something is wrong with your baby, you go to that doctor’s office and sit in the waiting room and wait there until they see your baby!”

My grandma, even though she didn’t want to be rude, was worried enough to follow this advice. 

The next day, she went into the doctor’s office and explained the situation. They told her the doctor couldn’t see her, so she sat down in the waiting room and waited. Eventually, at the end of the day, the doctor felt sorry for her and decided to at the very least humor her and examine my dad. As it turns out, it was a very good thing he did. My dad had congenital glaucoma, and the doctor realized that he needed to be operated on right away if he was to have any chance of having vision at all. They were able to operate on him in time to save one eye, but he is blind in the other, not that you can tell. If Grandma had waited those six months for the appointment, he would have been fully blind.

Sometimes, mothers do know best.

Related:
An Eye-Catching Lesson

Not long after the birth of our first child back in the early 2000s, my husband got my mother to babysit and dragged me out of the house for a few hours for a much-needed outing. It was my first time away from my new boy, and I was riding the emotional roller coaster of post-partum separation.

We hit the local superstore as one does for excitement in the rural south. Hubby went to check on something somewhere while I looked over the books and magazines.

From a few aisles away, a very young child started loudly calling, “Daddy!…. Daddy!…. Daddy.” The calls grew more forceful and frequent as the summons went unanswered. The kiddo wasn’t in distress, so I figured Daddy was just ignoring them.

“Daddy!…. Daddy!…. Daddy.”

After a minute or two, it started to give me the “New Mommy Twitch”, and I had to restrain myself from going over to see what the issue was.

“Daddy!…. Daddy!…. Daaaaaddy.”

Finally, I cracked and loudly said, “DADDY! Answer that child!”

Almost simultaneously, from two other areas, voices forcefully called, “Answer your child!”‘ and, “See to your kid!”

There was immediate silence. Since there was no kid fussing or angry dad hissing to be heard, I’m guessing Daddy woke up and finally paid attention.

I guess it’s true: it does take a village.