I was standing just outside the restaurant in the indoor lobby that doubles as a mall entrance when she walked by. My boys were running literal circles around me while I waited for my husband to pay the bill before he headed back to work, the sugar buzz from the syrup-soaked pancakes clearly kicking in. An older woman had just ducked inside, her white head of hair glistening with drops from the steady spring rain that hadn’t let up all morning.
We made eye contact as my free hand dug for keys in my coat pocket, and she spoke, both so quickly and quietly that I almost missed it.
“You’ll survive,” she said. “I have two boys, too.”
Even with her face (small and dainty like the rest of her frame) concealed for the most part behind her light blue mask, I could still see traces of a tender smile. I couldn’t help but notice how it made its way up into eyes that twinkled briefly with what I took to be nostalgia as she watched my noisy toddlers chase one another, their slippery sneakers squeaking underfoot.
I don’t think I appeared particularly frazzled at the time of the exchange, although Lord knows there are plenty of days I do. I don’t think this woman was reacting to body language or behavior or any of the other things that sometimes attract unsolicited comments or advice.
I don’t think she needed any of that. I think she just knew.
She knew the 30 minutes it took to load the snack bag and find the shoes and wrangle two squirmy kids into raincoats and car seats. She probably remembered trading peace and quiet for silly songs and what it was like to navigate rainy rush-hour traffic while simultaneously attempting answers to her three-year-old’s series of surprisingly existential questions.
I’m certain she could recall looking down to discover yogurt from her youngest smeared all over her jeans or peeking in the rearview mirror to find a tired and somewhat disheveled reflection staring back at her, one that regretted (for a second) not taking a little more time to ready herself for the day.
This veteran mother was undoubtedly familiar with the challenge and chaos of public outings with little ones (in both of our cases, sons), as well as the accompanying emotions for everyone involved. She had gone before me, walked in my very shoes. She knew all of this and so much more—all the things I couldn’t yet know, and also the things I did but didn’t have to tell her. Even in our fleeting ten-second encounter, I could sense several decades’ worth of perspective and wisdom.
This sweet stranger could have said a thousand different things to me this morning, choosing to believe she’s earned the right to share whatever is on her mind, regardless of how much judgment it might convey. But what she offered instead was kindness. Solidarity. A knowing nod of maternal alliance.
I’ve decided to tuck her reminder away and stow it somewhere safe until I need to hear it again. That could be later this afternoon or tomorrow—definitely by the end of next week. Whenever the time comes (most likely sooner than later), I’ll slip it out of safekeeping and wrap it around myself like a warm blanket, taking comfort in the gentle whispers of a wise passerby.
I will survive. This too shall pass.
Judging from the starry-eyed stare she gave my boys as they ran laps around the lobby, it will probably do so sooner than I’d like.
This is the sweetest post.