Manners in the toy store

Well, I was going to leave the toy shop and blog about something else, but as many of our customers find, once you're in there, it's hard to depart. So here's one more story. This was a moment I thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed.

It was after Christmas, so not too busy. The owner, let's call her Ali, was with a difficult customer. She was an elderly lady, accompanied by a younger woman (her daughter, probably). "Demanding" wasn't the word. Everything was questioned, wrong, inadequate, not what she wanted.

Now, I've got used to the American style of shopping. For a customer, there's none of that English embarrassment about not buying an item. However you say it, it's fine. You don't need to apologise or explain. You just say "I won't take this one", and leave it on the counter. I've also got used to what in England would seem like a rude criticism of a product. I don't think it's at all odd if a customer says "I don't like the way this book of nursery rhymes doesn't have words, just pictures", or "The instructions for this game seem somewhat complicated for a 5 year old. I'd prefer to look for something else." Expressing a negative opinion in this context doesn't seem offensive to me any longer (though it took a bit of getting used to at first). However, most customers express themselves politely, and usually balance negative comments with complimentary ones. This woman was something else. EVERYTHING was wrong. It was all too big, too small, too simple, too complicated, not made in the USA, not what she wanted. Not only did she say so, but the way she voiced her criticisms was rude. Ali guided her round the store, patiently making suggestions, but she clearly just wanted to be unpleasant, no matter what was offered to her. It was a slow and painful process.

Eventually the woman was ready to check out. She didn't like the two choices of gift wrap. She didn't like that we don't take cheques. She used a credit card, and as she signed the slip, she started shaking the pen in an irritated manner, the same pen that every other customer that morning had used, and asked,

"Can I get a decent pen somewhere here?"

Without missing even half a beat, Ali replied politely,

"Office Max*. It's the other side of the parking lot."

It was truly a marvelous moment.

The woman replied "What?... Oh... OH...", shut up, signed the slip, and went on her way.

Gotta love working at the toy store.


*Trying to think of the UK equivalent of Office Max, but feeling very out of touch. Rymans?

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Jesus in the toy store

You know that whole WWJD thing? “What Would Jesus Do”? I’m hopeless at that. If I ever stop and think to myself “What Would Jesus Do?” in a situation, and try to engage my imagination, I find either it’s a cultural leap too far (would Jesus let his 10 year old son go and watch Tron: Legacy at the movie theatre?), or Jesus says something enigmatic which doesn’t help at all, like “oh, I think you know the answer to that already, deep down”, which leaves me bleating “I don’t, I really don’t” to an elusive vanishing mental image of a face with a beard.

However, it is a laudable exercise, and in that spirit, I have tried to envisage Jesus in the toy store. This is how it goes.

He comes in, and I say “Hi!” enthusiastically (we greet all our customers). Then as he walks towards the counter, I ask my usual line “Can I help you find something?” and he replies “Actually, I was wondering if I could help you find something”. See? Right there? We haven’t got beyond our opening exchange, and he’s already gone all enigmatic on me.

I persevere, and start showing him round.

“Why’s everything in this corner pink?” he asks.

“This is what we call 'Girlie World',” I reply. “Girls like pink. Girls’ clothes are mostly pink these days. I know your mother always wore blue, but these days, it’s pink.”

“My mother didn’t wear blue actually. Not until the Renaissance artists got hold of her”, Jesus says.

“Oh. Sorry. Well, anyway, girls nowadays wear pink. Trust me.”

“ ‘Trust me’? Did you say ‘Trust me’? That’s my line.”

See again? I just can’t get this whole WWJD thing running smoothly at all.

I move on to the science kits.

“We sell a lot of these,” I say, “especially in the run up to Christmas. Your birthday. It’s so commercialised these days. I’m sorry about that. Do you mind?”

He’s reading the blurb on the back of a science kit box.

“This says it encourages an enquiring mind in a child. That’s good. I like that.”

I feel a little glow of pleasure. “Lots of our toys are educational” I point out, but it sounds a bit more smug than I meant it to.

“Enquiring minds is good. What do you have for enquiring hearts and enquiring souls?”

For a panicky moment I am at a loss for words, but then Lego comes to my rescue.

“Look. This stuff is really fun for kids. It encourages their imaginations. They can build anything they like. You can buy a Star Wars kit like this… (Star Wars? Oh… yes, a little after your time. Never mind.) Or a tub of bricks like this… Or a board game like these.” I pick Lego Creationary off the shelf. “You’d enjoy this one, I think.”

I get a smile from him with that.

The Lego is next to the magic kits, which catch his eye.

“What are these for?”

“Magic kits? Oh, you know. Tricks. Like changing an object into something else, or making things disappear,” I tell him.

“Ooh, that sounds right up my street!” exclaims Jesus. He looks at the price label. “I don’t think I’ll be needing to spend $29.99 on it though.”

How does the visit end, I wonder? Do I show him the small crusader knight figurines, and lament with him the dreadful things that the church has been responsible for in its history? Do I browse the board game section with him, and use Fact or Crap (yes, there really is a game called that) to strike up a dialogue about the discernment of truth? Does the play-pretend doctor’s kit give me the opportunity to ask him why there’s evil in the world… cancer, might be one example I’d toss in… and tell him how, frankly, if I was almighty, I’d jolly well have found a way to create a world that would stay perfect? Or do I take him into the back office and offer him a cup of tea (Hello?... Yes!!... Duh… of course Jesus likes a nice cup of tea…) and witter on at length about my life, not letting him get a word in edgeways?

What? You think it’s the “wittering on at length” ending? Why would you think that?

Therapy in the toy store: Part ll

Do you know who gets the best therapy at the toy store? It’s me! Yes, me, me, ME!

I love the people I work with and for. They ‘get’ me without trying, in a way that is rare here (they’re East Coasters – I wonder if that helps.) It’s not often in America that I can relax as I make the darkest worst taste jokes, and know they’ll be received with guffaws of hilarity, and that the thread will be picked up and continued with. There’s nothing I love better than a running joke, and we have a few of them scampering around the aisles.

I love the space. It’s not mine, you see. There’s not that inescapable feeling that I could be… should be… tidying, cleaning or repairing something, somewhere. Am I the only stay-at-home mum who can’t relax in her own home? At least I used not to be able to, but now I can, because now home is where I’m off work, not where I’m at work.

I love the variety the job brings to my life. I love how in the morning I think to myself “ooh, work today, good!”, or “ooh, a day at home, just what I need!”. I love how I no longer have to be so self-sufficient. Being at home full-time is a tough call, sometimes.

I love the change in myself that the job has wrought. It’s as if someone directed me to the shelf marked ‘confidence toys’, and let me choose the one I wanted. I’ve overcome my early fears. I’m not afraid of the till. I’m not afraid of the credit card swiping machine. I’m not afraid of doing returns. I’m not afraid of coupons and discounts. I’m not afraid of answering the phone. I’m not afraid of customers (and they’re pretty scary when you first start). I’m not afraid of gift-wrapping while someone is watching me, or while several people are watching me (which is very different to gift wrapping at your own kitchen table, trust me). I’m not even afraid of the wayward raffia. That stuff has a mind of its own, but my authoritative fingers can now deftly tame it without fail into a delightful bow.

I love wearing make-up and decent(ish) clothes when I’m there. I’ve noticed (and I love this too) that all the clothes I’ve bought since I’ve started work have been strong colours: plum, raspberry, teal, mustard yellow. Get me. I’ve never worn anything mustard yellow before. Oh. Wait. Not true. In 1988, I had a mid-calf-length wool skirt from Benetton which was mustard yellow. But that was more of a subtle French mustard, not a statement Colman’s English mustard, and I always wore it with grey or black, not daringly paired with other equally assertive tones as I do now. Speaking of Benetton, whatever happened to Benetton? We all thought Benetton was the last word in cool, high street, natty dressing at one time. That’s retail for you, though. Tough business. I should know. Did I mention that I’m in retail now?

Where was I? Ah yes, the confidence that the job has brought me. I nearly died of sheer unadulterated pleasure when a customer thanked me for helping them, and said “you’re very good at your job”. Two people in the week before Christmas made a point of telling the store owner, in front of me, that I’d found them exactly what they needed. One of them used the word ‘awesome’, actually. (*blushes*) (*face clashes with mustard top*) I’ve noticed that people who come in trying to sell advertising space or whatever it is, now ask me “are you the owner?” rather than “can I speak with the owner?”

They warned me from the outset, when I started in September, how crazy busy the shop would be for the whole of December. They painted a picture of madness, chaos, unrelenting pressure, trials and tribulations. And guess what? I loved every moment. Every single moment. I thrived on the continuous activity. I drank in the atmosphere like a tonic. I flourished. I’m actually a bit bored, now it’s January.

One more thing I love, and this one has taken me by surprise. I love contributing to the family income. It’s not much. I’m on an hourly rate which is embarrassingly close to the minimum wage, and I don’t clock up many hours. But it’s a good feeling nonetheless. I didn’t know that about myself. I always thought I didn’t mind at all that Husband was the sole breadwinner.

I recently missed a reunion dinner at my old university. A friend sent some photos, and as I looked at the faces in the pictures, I reflected on how topsy-turvy life often is. Most of those people, all of them probably, are in well-paid, high-powered jobs (let’s face it, the ones who aren’t, don’t pitch up so much at the reunions). Their jobs are appropriate to the education we together received. And I’m not saying that they’re not successful, satisfied, stimulated, happy in their jobs. But I do know this. None of them, not one single one, will be getting the same unmingled joy out of each day, each hour of each day, that I am, in my lowly sales assistant position, in my small unknown toy shop, in my out-of-the-way crevice of this fly-over state.

I’m not naïve. I know that this job won’t keep me happy forever. I know that I’ll get bored before too long. I know that I’m capable of more, and that I’ll be restless to experience and prove that. But when it came my way, this job was a godsend. The last job I had was the opposite. The children were aged 1, 4 and 7: one at home, one at preschool, one at big school. A challenging time to return to work, by any account. But Husband was suddenly, unexpectedly, unfairly, unemployed. I worked half-time to see us through, in a job which on paper seemed interesting, challenging, do-able, suitable for someone with my educational background and employment history. But it was a nightmare. I resigned at the end of the first week, in fact, but was persuaded back. The experience sucked all my confidence out of me, and though I knew in a rational way that it was the job description, the organisation, the people who were to blame, not me, that didn’t stop the sucking process. It ended badly. So over the past couple of years, as much as I was chasing a green card, I was secretly always relieved when it didn’t come, because I was so scared of the world of work. But now, as I said, I’m not even scared of the raffia. I’ve come a long way. It’s not often you’re on the payroll for your own therapy.

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Therapy in the toy store: Part l

You don’t just get a toy, when you come to the toy shop. You get therapy, and like the gift wrap service, it’s free.

Family therapy is our main business. We know that daughters-in-law can make buying a present for a grandchild well nigh impossible. “I think he’d like this, but I’m not sure his mother would approve” you say, tentatively. We sympathise, and then we help you find an alternative which you’ll be just as happy to give.

We know that mothers-in-law can make life with a new baby difficult. We understand when you explain how the musical mobile she insisted on giving you isn’t nearly as nice as the one you wanted. We do exchanges without judgement.

We tactfully don’t watch as your small child has a tantrum, and refuses to leave the shop without the toy he’s holding. Or we might say “don't worry, we’ve all been there”. If we sense you need our help, we address your child “oh, it’s SO hard to leave the toy store, isn’t it? But you can come again another day. You have to leave the toys here, though. Everyone has to.”

We declare “It’s cute baby day in the toy store today!”, and make you feel that your infant is the most beautiful one who has ever crossed our threshold. We let your toddlers play with the train track, and the doll’s house, and the sandbox, bounce around on the hop ball, ride round on the bike, jump on the trampoline, and it doesn’t matter at all if they make a mess, or make a noise. “It’s a toy store!” we exclaim.

We offer a 10% discount to therapists, teachers, and staff from the local center for disabled children, and we never ask if they’re buying the toy for the classroom or their own home.

Some therapy pulls the heartstrings. I tried to help someone find some dot-to-dot books with pictures that weren’t too babyish for an 18-year-old with an educational age of 10 (“and he still thinks he’s going to college like all the other 18 year olds”). I spent some time recently with two older women who came in looking for activities to keep occupied their Alzheimer-suffering husbands. It really must be like having a small child to look after. No small pieces to put in their mouths, no magnets, nothing which demands too long an attention span.

I personally have developed two particular therapies. The first is the “no more mummy guilt” therapy. If a customer ever makes reference to being a bad mum (or dad for that matter), for whatever reason, I look them straight in the eye, and say “that doesn’t make you a bad mother”. It’s amazing what people worry about, thinking it makes them a bad parent. Buying party favours only the day before the party. Buying not enough presents for their child’s birthday. Buying too many presents for their child’s birthday. Not buying exactly what their child wants. Not knowing exactly what their child wants. It’s time we dropped all this parent guilt. I’m doing my bit in the toy shop.

The second is a seasonal therapy, to the grandparents who came to the shop early in December, wanting to buy presents to send to far away grandchildren. “I think she’d like this... Yes, I think she would... But I haven’t seen her for a long while, and they change so fast.” I reply “I’m sure she’ll love it. I’m sure she will”. I understand that you don’t want to make a quick decision. I understand that you need to spend an hour looking round, picking all the different items off the shelves, holding them, feeling them, choosing the right one to imbue with your love before letting us wrap it and ship it off. I understand if you say you’ll wrap it yourself. You want to take it home and have it in your hands a little longer. You want the gift tag to be in your own writing. You want to add ‘with so much love from…' and underline ‘so much’. I hear what it is you’re really saying, when you tell me you have to get the choice right, because they live so far away, they can’t come in to do an exchange. I like listening to you as you talk about your grandkids. I ask questions about them. I smile a lot when I’m talking to you. I want you to enjoy your morning, choosing Christmas presents for the grandkids so far away. I like helping you look around, and giving you ideas, but I know too that you need some time on your own, so I leave you in peace. I am, by proxy, the sales assistant who is scanning the bar codes on the purchases my mother is making, an ocean and half a continent away.

2010 in pictures

So there's a free ticket being given away for Cybermummy 2011. I don't know which side of the Atlantic I'll be this summer, but against the possibility that I might be in England, I'm going to enter. The competition is 'Your 2010 in Pictures'. You can post either a single picture, or a montage. You can see all the entries here.

OK... So... My 2010 in pictures. I've been browsing back through my photos of the year, and the trouble is, I don't post pictures of my kids or myself, and it would be too boring to sum up the year in nature shots, so I was a bit stuck. But then I found a few that 6-yo took. She is very interested in photography, and is saving up her pocket money and Christmas money for a camera of her own. We occasionally let her use ours, as a special treat, and back in January 2010, she took these. I'm calling them "Barbie meets Postman Pat".

Here's the first in the series. It's Alexa from Barbie in The Diamond Castle. For those of you who are not familiar with the film, it's a heart-warming tale of how two sisters, who live together in a cottage in the countryside growing flowers to sell in the market, come across a magic mirror, in which a Muse called Melody is trapped. Melody entreats them to help, and they set out on a quest which is... you know what? If you are not familiar with the film, relax and count yourself lucky.

The second in the series features Barbie in an evening gown which 6-yo designed herself. Do you like the tasteful single green flower on the front? She looks a little disheveled, in an after-the-party kind of a way.

Photo number three shows Barbie in more casual attire.

I'm titling the next one "Barbie prepares to bite off Pat's nose".

Here is Hallowe'en Barbie. That fire is perilously close to her dress. No wonder her hair is standing on end.

And as a finale, here is the complete Barbie line-up. Postman Pat, it's your lucky day. What would Mrs Goggins make of it all? Reverend Timms, control yourself.


So why do these pictures sum up my 2010? Well, I can think of so many reasons. First, there's my growing girl. She was 5-yo and a Kindergartener when she took these pictures, and now she's 6-yo and a big First Grader. She knows her months of the year, and has no need for this jigsaw puzzle any more. I have no idea why she used the puzzle as a backdrop for her Barbie parade, and I marvel at the ingenuity and creativity that is a child. I love the mystery of their small minds.

Then there's the intelligent juxtaposition of our Englishness and Americanness. "Barbie meets Postman Pat" sums it up so perfectly. Look at her, all glamorous and movie star. And look at him, all homeliness and cups of tea in the post office. This is brilliantly chosen symbolism of a childhood split emotionally between Britain and America. The composition is significant too. 6-yo hardly knows who Postman Pat is. He's the man in this jigsaw puzzle, but she doesn't see him on television or lunchboxes, in magazines and colouring books. He's there in the background, but he's not part of the activity of her life, as Barbie is. The composition of the photos perfectly reflects the reality.

The photos speak to me of our fourth year in the US completed, and the continuing erosion of our familiarity with British life. There's Barbie in her Hallowe'en dress. We hardly knew what Hallowe'en was, four years ago, and now we are past masters at choosing costumes and knowing which streets in our neighborhood are good for trick or treating. Meanwhile, the puzzle shows Reverend Timms carefully putting together his harvest festival display, Bonfire Night in November, children dancing round a Maypole. These are celebrations of which 6-yo knows nothing (though the Maypole? Really? Does anyone still do that?) Does that make me sad? Yes, of course it still does. But I have also found out that it's ok to let those things go. And as time goes by, I know that my children will make sense in the future of this strange split identity that they are acquiring, because I see them doing it in the present. We spent the summer in the UK, and they loved every minute of it. They are proud of their nationality, but they love life here in America too. Their maturity and their confidence in this astonishes me.

Yes. I think this is a good way to sum up 2010.

By the way, I haven't fixed, cropped or edited any of the photos in any way. They are exactly as 6-yo took them.

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New Year Rant

Okay, so here is a rant. It's been triggered by this post at Notes from Lapland. She's writing about how cosmetic surgery and beauty treatments which we used to think were the sole privilege of narcissistic and slightly weird celebrities, have now become mainstream. Her example of choice is teeth-whitening. She says:

I remember not many years back laughing at the blindingly white, perfectly straight, false looking teeth that every American actor had. Now it’s perfectly normal to have your teeth whitened and many shopping centres in the UK have Whiten While You Wait booths for those lunch time teeth whitening emergencies.

What’s wrong with normal looking teeth, when did they become an abomination? Are we really all expected to look like anime characters?...

...We all know how it works. You see it enough to become desensitized to it, making it normal. You feel abnormal for not having it done.

She puts it so well. Somewhere along the line, having perfectly white teeth, and perfectly straight teeth, has become a norm so strong that it has become harder to opt out of it than opt into it. Did we all collectively want that to happen? Did we tick some box that said "I want to spend time and money on making my teeth look good. That is an important issue for my life."?

Let's play guess the celebrity.
Whose perfectly straight teeth are these? Recognise them?

Ha! Trick question. Those are the teeth of my 13 year old son, and you know what? I'm very grateful for them, because if they weren't so beautiful, they would probably be requiring us to fork out thousands of dollars in orthodontist bills. (And while I'm venting my rage, I want to ask why they are called orthodontists, not orthodentists? Why?) The jury is out on 9-yo, but 6-yo definitely has a crowded mouth, so unless the Tooth Fairy can do a little more magic than just leaving a couple of dollars in an egg cup by the bed, we are going to be presented with some choices over the next few years.

There's the financial choice. Would we rather spend our money on ensuring that 6-yo will look just like all her peers, than on her education, holidays, leisure activities, living environment, or anything else that we could choose. Of course the orthodontistry option is appealing to the parental instinct, because it is visible proof to everyone that we care for her, and are wealthy enough to hold our heads up in polite society.

Then there's the medical choice. Apparently these days what you do for an overcrowded mouth is apply some metallic contraption or other that encourages the jaw to grow, to make a bit more space for the teeth. The dental hygienist who was telling me about this assured me that they have done research, which demonstrates that this is a better strategy than taking out a couple of teeth, and prevents problems in later life. Yup. I bet they have. (She couldn't remember what problems it prevents, but she thought they must be serious...) But my nice Scottish osteopath, when he heard we were moving to America, told me not to let them put braces on my kids. According to him, they can cause so many problems in later life: neck problems, head aches... quite apart from all the issues to do with making your child go through her most formative years with a mouthful of painful metal, which will affect her eating, her speaking, her image of herself.

Don't you think they'll look back, in centuries to come, and judge teeth braces as instruments of torture? Don't you think they'll be up there with corsets, and foot-binding? (Well, not as bad as foot-binding, but absolutely as bad as corsets.)

Here's why I am so ranty and angry about this. I feel so powerless. I know that the pressure to enable 6-yo to have nice teeth will be greater than my better judgement. It's not that I want her to have horridly crooked teeth. I don't. But I believe that there is a sensible middle ground, where a little bit of dentistry will result in good enough teeth (and as Notes from Lapland fears, this kind of talk does make one sound like Aunt Mabel saying "what was good enough for my generation, is good enough for yours"). I believe that getting her jaw to grow beyond what nature intended, in order for her to have a row of white tombstones that will give her the look that used to be pure Hollywood, but is now average suburban housewife, is not right. I want to have a sensible conversation about this with an intelligent dentist. But it doesn't work that way. Dentists are bought into helping people have perfect teeth - it's their business. The media, the fasion industry, the cosmetics industry, the plastic surgery industry, the airbrushing industry, Mrs Jones down the road, I don't even know WHO... they are all bought into presenting us with the image of what is no longer the perfect face, but the acceptable face. And as much as I want to bring 6-yo up to believe all that good stuff about it's not what you look like but what you are, and how dangerous and damaging it is to tie up your self-esteem in your looks, I can see that I've lost the battle before I even start. I don't know who the enemy is. I don't know how to arm myself. I don't even know if I want to win. Do I really want her to have less-than-perfect teeth in a world where everyone else's are perfect?

I feel we are all tricked into reciting mantras which have no meaning. Every time we read something that says a person had cosmetic work done "for their self-esteem", we help create that myth, and bolster it, and now the myth has become reality. It really will be hard for 6-yo to have good self-esteem if she doesn't have good teeth. It's not her fault, and it's not my fault. How did it happen? I feel so powerless. It makes me angry. I haven't been this furious since I wrote about the learn-to-dress kitty toy (I only vent my spleen in tackling life's larger issues...).

Powerless, but not voiceless. That's the great thing about blogging.

And a ranty new year to you!

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