THAT Mom.

It happened.

I knew it would come eventually, and I suppose it is best to have it over with.  But it wasn't fun, and I don't look forward to its inevitable return.

This morning, I was THAT mom.

You know the one.  The mom who is falling apart at the seams as her child absolutely loses it.

In public.

With an audience.

We had visited this consignment sale last Thursday, one of the fancy ones that only accepts high-end children's clothing.  The prices were still a bit steep for my budget, so I planned to return this morning at 7 a.m. when everything went half-off.  There we were, my boy and me (Daddy was studying for boards), armed with pacifier and MumMums, ready to shop 'til we dropped.

Until my child decided he would rather drop than shop.  From the get-go, my typically chill baby was hacked.  It started as fussing.  I flipped through the racks faster.  Then it turned to crying.  I finished flipping through the 12-18 month rack, popping in a paci, bouncing, shushing.  He spat the paci onto the floor, and when I bent to retrieve it my entire stash of clothes that had been hanging off of the diaper bag strap went tumbling to the floor.

A kind woman helped me collect them, and I hurried to an empty rack to weed through my hastily-gathered loot.  In the mean time, Riggins sent a MumMum to the floor, which was my major red flag that things were about to fall apart.  MumMums are never rejected.

I eliminated a few items and was left with a pretty good score, and though a few were missing their price tags I figured that they would be similar to the other $5-8 items in my arms.  We hit the cashier, who took a century to add up each price tag, crediting each item to its coordinating consigner in the computer.  As she punched, Riggins continued to escalate.  I continued to get flustered.  It felt like an eternity.

"That will be $150."

Oh no.  No.  It can't be.  Some of those tagless items had to have been way more than the others with tags.  I was so, so tempted to just write the check and get out of there, but I just couldn't do it.  I couldn't go home and tell my husband that I dropped $150 on used baby clothes.

My cheeks burning with embarrassment, I asked if it was too late to put a few items back.  Her lips said it was not.  Her face said it was.  By this point, a line had formed behind me.  I knew that all of these mothers were thinking, "She's getting all of those designer clothes for a steal!  What's the big deal?  $150 is great!"  And it is.  But not for me.  Not right now.

There I stood, screaming, squirming baby in arms, face hot and red in shame, apologizing profusely and mumbling about how my baby must be getting sick because he's never like this and I'm on a budget and this was just a bit more than I'd planned and I guess a few of those items were more than I thought and maybe it's teething and get me the heck out of here.  The only thing that kept the tears from surfacing was my inner chant of, "You'll never see these people again.  You'll never see these people again.  You'll never see these people again."

As soon as my check was in the cashier's hands, I grabbed the clothes and bolted.  I was so upset.  So embarrassed.  So frustrated.  So angry.  Angry at my baby for acting like a baby.  Angry at Jonathan for taking boards and not being free to babysit.  Angry at a life season that keeps me from being able to write a check for $150 without it punching me in the gut.  Angry at snooty Southern women for making me feel like I was too cheap to buy my kid his fancy Southern church clothes.  Angry at myself for being flustered and frustrated with my child.

I'd like to say that I bounced back quickly.  I didn't.  I came home and had a good cry to Jonathan.  I snuggled my baby, feeling guilt and shame just knowing that he could feel my frustration with him.  I worked out, trying to let off a little steam.  But I came home to a still fussy baby and a still studying husband.

And in that moment, when nothing was perfect, when nothing was resolved, God was so good.  He gently revealed the ugly areas of my heart that created the situation of this morning.  Because really, it didn't have to be a situation at all, were it not for me and my sin.

I was mad at my baby, who was only acting as babies are meant to do, not because he was being disobedient (he wasn't) but because he was making me look bad.  In front of other people.  Who--God forbid--might be judging my parenting skills or--even worse--my child.  My child is fine.  My ego is not.  

I was mad at my husband, who was home busting his tail in order to pass an exam in which he will sit for 16 hours answering questions over three years worth of knowledge.  Mad at the husband who approaches parenting as a team, who watches our son multiple times a week with enthusiasm, and who simply needs the next two weeks to really hit the books before this exam.  Mad at the husband who risked it all to bravely follow God's new calling on his life, that will also provide a better life for our family.  My husband is fine.  My selfishness is not.

I was mad at my budget, that does not allow me the freedom to drop money without thinking of it.  Mad that the financial blessings that give us every last thing we need was not enough to spend on trivial things I want.  But heaven forbid I ever, ever reach a place where I spend money on things as frivolous as clothes without thinking first!  Even when $150 doesn't feel as high a price as it does right now, I hope it always seems high.  My financial situation is fine.  My state of discontent is not.  

I was mad at my surroundings, that make me feel that pricey, name-brand clothes with monograms, smocking, appliques galore are essential to having a well-dressed child.  I felt cheap, unable to justify a splurge on even consigned, used clothes for my son.  Heaven forbid he show up to MOPS in jeans and a t-shirt!  But my child has plenty of darling clothes.  And, more importantly, my child is darling himself.  My child's wardrobe is fine.  My envy is not.

I had grown a disaster that was completely rooted in my own mind, nourished with my own pride.  And it was not pretty.  Oh, how I need the grace of Jesus in this life!  How dare I attempt to be a wife, to be a mother, in my own strength and striving, guided by my own distorted view of reality and truth, driven by shallow desires of this world!  I will fail.  I do fail.  Every time.

And just in case the lesson wasn't really driven home, guess who left her checkbook at the consignment sale?

Oh, yes.  I got to go back.  With my tail between my legs.  Just waiting for those women's snide looks.  Just ready for the whispers: "Oh that's the one from this morning?"  Because you know they had been discussing me ever since my departure, the poor girl with the miserable, snotty-nosed baby who couldn't afford to shop.

I decided to make light of it.  I marched up to that cashier's table, asked for my check book, and as they handed it over I said in my best 'it ain't no thang' voice, "Well, y'all were so lucky to experience my first ever public meltdown with a baby!  No wonder I left my checkbook!"  And that's when one of the ladies who had witnessed our debacle said, "Well sweetie, it must have been a bigger deal to you, because we didn't even notice!"  Another worker chipped in, "Yep, and even if we did, it's gotta happen sometime!" A third piped up, "Yeah, every mama's got to get initiated! Congratulations!"  We even chit-chatted about how fast those price tags can add up, especially when some things are unmarked.  She reiterated that it wasn't a big deal at all that I had put items back.

I left with a smile on my face.  Closure, if you will, from those women I prayed I would never see again.  And I'm sure those women were just as nice this morning.  I was just so wrapped up in myself that I was going to interpret everything as one more jab to my ego.

At the end of the day, we mothers are all in this together.  Our kids are fine.  Our husbands are fine.  We are fine.

But that other junk in there?  Not fine at all.