Farther Than I've Ever Been

On Tuesday evening, we barely made it past the threshold of the tattoo parlor. The early 19th century cottage converted to a haven for misfits and yet children under 16 were not permitted under any circumstances. I looked at the three misfits, er, children with me, ages 9, nearing 4 and nearly 1. Well, my mother-in-law, the exact opposite of a misfit, would have to take the middle child while I claimed the youngest as a babe-in-arms and the eldest as a nascent patron of the Wearable Arts.

Already I had missed the perfect landing this other mom had made in her daughter's experience with getting her ears pierced properly (i.e., not at Claire's). I had gathered together the paperwork: my daughter's birth certificate and something akin to a school ID. Unfortunately, it remained at home with piles of papers caught in a half-hearted school papers sorting program called, "I Stopped Caring after Labor Day."

But I was saved by the "Walk-Ins Only" policy. Two tattoo sittings already had claim on our piercing artist. We would not get to do the piercings today whether I had proof that she was my child or not. The fact that we were all still smiling as we cradled disappointment, children, and support stuffies in our arms at least proved what a resilient child and parent I was raising. But in case disappointment was worse on an empty stomach, we stopped for ice cream at the local Dairy Queen and took dripping cones for a walk around Lake Loveland.

Wednesday we had a full evening. Thursday looked even worse.

I stopped at the store on my way home from a doctor's appointment and actually remembered my items to return! And I remembered--while still shopping--the thing I'd run out of at home! After proudly showing up at preschool earlier in the day with a jogging stroller, my daughter's helmet, and--ah, dang it!--no bicycle for her, I was now hitting it out of the park! My sudden power for recall coincided with leaving the kids home. They'd been napping, so I just left them there. With Dad.

It even occurred to my clear mind as I neared home that I could stop by the school to pick up my 9-year-old from her Gardening Club and then sneak away with only one child so we could go and get her piercings done. 

I rolled my eyes as I remembered the documents still sitting in a sea of loose-leaf detritus on my dining room table. Sigh! I would have to show my face at home, which meant that escaping again without another child or three would be impossible. 

I brought in my purchases, found the papers I needed, set out some dinner ingredients in case my husband came to graze and felt inspired by the sight of dry noodles, pasta sauce, and a hamburger chub; and then I heard the snap, crackle, and pop of my youngest liquidating his bowels again. 

After changing the kid with a tummy bug and seeing how rapidly he went back to toppling books that he couldn't reach the day before, I decided to just take him with me. I re-warmed frozen pizza, grabbed my giant diaper bag, and headed for the school, explosion-maker in tow.

I arrived six minutes late. Not bad. When I told my daughter that we had everything lined up for another stab at getting her ears pierced, she ran full speed down the hill to our car. I added to my Amazing Mother status by providing pizza and the rare surprise of getting a letter in the mail. 

I expertly navigated the one-way streets and found the tattoo parlor. As we pulled in, we saw what looked like a Girls Night Out for Dia de Las Madres. Probably a girl 10 or under, a young woman around 20, a woman 35 or under, and the matriarch, who, it turned out, was getting a nose-piercing, and looked about 50. I wished aloud as we pulled into our space that they had forgotten their paperwork, as I assumed the youngest was there to get her ears pierced. 

"Mom, you shouldn't wish for something bad to happen to them."

"Ugh. You're right. I just hope they're not all here to get work done. I need to be home in 45 minutes to make dinner so we can eat before your piano lesson and my church meeting."

As I walked up the little entrance ramp, I suddenly recalled moments from my childhood when my mom was told that purchases were "cash only." 

Some children get told that money doesn't grow on trees. I knew where paper came from, and I sullenly asked my mom why we couldn't afford things if all she had to do was write on a piece of paper. That's when I learned to respect the mighty check. 

I quickly caught on to the lingo and learned that she rarely bounced a check. That woman actually used her register and always knew how much was or wasn't in the checking account. If an overdraft notice arrived in the mail, she made a particularly delicious meal so that my dad would receive the news on a full stomach [I am elaborating on the truth here]. 

When drive-through cashiers asked for ID with her checks, she would point to the number on her check and say, "You don't get into the thousands by writing bad checks." The puzzled teen would ask again for her to dig out her ID, and my twin and I would exchange glances. Brilliant Mom? Check. 

I dismissed this collection of memories as I laughed about how easy everything is with electronic payments now. Cash. What modern business is that archaic?

I put my daughter in charge of paperwork, which she tried to hand to every pierced adult who addressed us. "This is me," she grinned. "I'm her daughter. This is Sammy. He's my support owl. I'm getting my ears pierced."

I saw that the Familia Coco was still filling out paperwork, so I flew through ours, hoping to get ahead in line. Drunk? No. HIV? No. Prone to passing out? Well, her father had just collapsed while making a middle-of-the-night baby bottle a few days before...but No. Do I understand what I am doing? No. But I will say yes if it gets us back out of here before my son explodes his diaper.

That's when I saw the Cash Only sign. Was that like the "No One Admitted Under the Age of 16 NO EXCEPTIONS" that I had just waltzed past? Just a recommendation for the kind of people who don't like to schedule appointments? The kind who are looking for a way to get another hole put in their body? The kind who are going to lose track of what's important to them, so they get it tattooed to their skin? People who aren't reliable enough to have their checks numbering in the thousands like I have?

No, it really did mean cash only. For everyone. I handed the lunging little one to my daughter. "Here, don't let him eat the blinds." 

I knew that for once, I had cash. I had just returned a few items to the store and received a handful of bills and coins back in return. I'd felt so rich that I'd handed one of them to the panhandler at the roundabout just outside the store parking lot. I'd seen him across town at a different panhandling location two days prior. I would usually have given out a pre-made beggar's bag, but I was fresh out. Warm day, no shade, dog panting, and the woman at his side sat discussing their situation with a concerned citizen who was more involved than I had time for. 

But even that donated bill would not have saved me. I was still $20 short. I once carried an emergency $20 in my car. My previous car. The Subaru we traded in three years ago when we decided that even though we'd surmised that all Northern Coloradans have a Subaru, a dog, a bicycle, and a tattoo, we could trade our only hope at fitting in for a truck. We would be those kind of Coloradans. The kind that are two days late and $20 short.

Emergency bag. I kept an emergency bag with kid supplies and clothing in the back of the car. One section contained an ID in case I forgot my name and no one had thought to tattoo it to themselves. I might have put some cash with it. No way were these masochists going to outsmart my maternal will to suffer.

I scooped up the baby and my diaper bag the size of a golf caddy, said, "I'm just running to the car to look for cash," and left my nine-year-old daughter alone in a tattoo parlor. Without her birth certificate so no one could trace her back to her negligent mother.

Drop bags, place baby in precariously high position for a fall, lug emergency bag into view. No cash. Hair clip, cough drop, tampon. All the essentials. No cash.

I began to dig deep. My recall neurons fired back a brilliant solution. What would Mom do? Of course! Write a check for $20 over. And here I was, surrounded by businesses. "Good Times Burgers, I have driven past you for years. But today is your lucky day."

I practically hopped from one foot to the next as I waited for my teenaged cashier to emerge from the bathroom, don his headset, go back for his discarded apron, and take his place at the register.

"Before I order, just a quick question. Can I pay with a card or check for more than the amount I owe and get cash back?"

Blank expression and a "Lemme ask my manager."

Definitely a no. If you have to ask the manager, it's a no.

"No, we don't do that." 

Of course not. Well, at least I knew where we'd be going for ice cream this time around. But as I stepped out and faced the busy street, I remembered the panhandler whose face I'd seen not in two locations, but in three. I had handed him one of my bags on the corner at which I now stood. 

How long would it take to make $20? No make-up on, so I looked haggard, worn down by life. Baby on my hip: could I play the innocent child card? Cardboard sign could read: "All dried up. Baby hungry. Need cash." I'll bet the manager had a box and a marker. I could have a sign made up and $20 in my pocket before Mamasita had her nose pierced.

I shook the insanity from my head. I have money. I just need it to become cash. Who might have cash that would accept a check?

A-ha! Other patrons at the parlor. I now knew that those people wore their thoughts on their skin and their life savings in their pockets. 

I walked in to see my daughter's expression: prepared for good news, braced for the worst. 

"I couldn't find any cash, but I have an idea."

Before I could ponder the dearth of my manners, I turned to the 30-something of the party of four, who held the child on her lap, and blurted out, "If you have a $20 bill, I will give you $25 for it in a check. The best check you will ever see in your life." 

She stammered out an "I don't know" while reaching for her wallet. Just as my last hope concluded that she'd left her cash in the car, one of my daughter's future ear-piercers pointed out that the ATM had only a $3 surcharge.

That's a $2 savings! I thought. I like saving money.

Wait. What did she say? "ATM? Where is it?" I glanced back toward the busy road.

"Right here," she pointed.

Next to the couch on which my bewildered daughter sat. A cute little blinky-light machine that I had ignored with all of my might because it reminded me so much of an otherwise lovely child who is whining at me.

By this time, I was narrating my missteps out loud, talking to myself with my hair sticking out sideways from my pony tail, wondering whether the initials "ATM" would look best on my jiggly bicep or on my forehead, and then stuffing the $20 into some location that required a frantic search of my belongings when payment came due. 

I sat down with a sigh, offered my "Feliz Dia de Las Madres" to my neighbor, who was from Chihuahua, Mexico, and fed bits of pizza to my restless son while hoping I would not see a "No Food or Drink" sign. 

And then as if these two angels of mercy had read the blog on how to pierce ears properly, we were ushered to a clean, calm room with sterile supplies arranged in a cart that looked like a nurse's station had had a baby with a skateboard, and we were soon on our way with supplies and instructions--which my amazing daughter read--and remembered--without physically altering her body. 

Now if only I had read the blog post about the ideal ear-piercing experience ahead of time, I might have remembered my manners long enough to tip these ladies. My only tip was, "Well, that had to hurt less than breastfeeding. Imagine that pain times a thousand. In your nipples. For at least thirty seconds twelve times a day for six weeks." My newly sparkling daughter looked up from her luxury dentist chair and said, "Huh?"

"Don't worry," I told her. "You were totally worth it." She's the sparkle in my eyes and the tear in my heart.