Today, Z got his first lesson in the perils of law-breaking.
L, Z and I ran into Target for a quick errand. Which, of course, meant plenty of side-tracks, sales distractions and diversions in the form of shiny things. At one point in the journey through my red and white version of Heaven, I vaguely recalled hearing Z say something about his blue bracelet. But I was in my “Mommy’s in Target so don’t bother me unless one of your internal organs suddenly becomes external” zone. Plus, he wasn’t holding anything with a chevron pattern so he kinda just faded into the background.
We completed our errand -- with a minimum amount of damage to JAO’s credit card -- and left the store. Half-way down the road, my post-Target buzz was harshed by Z’s sudden cry of, “Oh, no! Mom! I walked out of the store with this bracelet and it isn’t even mine!”
Quickly, I spun in my seat to see what he was holding -- torn between horror at his crime and a tiny spark of hope that it was actually something sparkly and shiny. But all he was holding was a blue, braided-rope bracelet that looked just like the one he already owned.
Apparently, while traversing the vast wonderland of home-goods and fabulously-cute shoes, Z spotted this blue bracelet, with no tags on it, laying on the floor. Since it looked just like his, he picked it up and put it on. Now, I’d like to say that it was an accident and that he thought that the bracelet was actually his -- after all, he had purchased the exact same one from that very Target two weeks ago. But, I’m not sure what makes him look worse: being a down-right thief or being so simple-minded that he couldn’t recall whether or not he had worn the bracelet into the store in the first place.
I think I’ll go with simple-minded. It’s not illegal.
But, regardless, I couldn’t let this life-lesson go unlearned. We returned to the store and I instructed Z to walk toward the Customer Service counter and admit to his crime.
As we entered the store, he looked ready to burst into tears, throw up all over his new Crocs and faint all at the same time. To be honest, I was feeling a bit Jodi-Arias-on-the-first-day-of-trial myself. I’ve never been an accessory to a crime before. It was terrifying and thrilling at the same time. But, maybe that’s a matter for a future therapy session. I digress.
As we approached the Customer Service counter, I was surprised to see a police woman standing there. Never, in my extensive history of shopping at Target have I ever seen a cop while I was there. Perhaps they are always there, but as a law-abiding citizen, my upstanding-moral brain doesn’t register them because I are smugly confident in the knowledge that I have done no wrong. Well, today, this officer may as well have had a spot light shining on her surrounded by a choir intoning a harmonic “Ahhhhhhh!”
I thought, “Oh, great. Z is really going to lose it now.” But he held it together and shuffled somberly up to the counter. He stood there a moment as the Target lady looked expectantly at me, then down at Z. She was about 50 and just screamed “grandmother.” Not to be overly-stereotypical, but, well, she did. I prayed she had experience with mischievous boys and would sympathize with how trouble seemed to come as naturally to them as breathing and understanding “Super Mario Bros.”
“Go on,” I encouraged Z, “tell her why you are here.”
In a voice so meek (and pretty stinking cute), Z replied, “I kinda stealed this.” He then stretched out his slightly shaking hand and placed the stealed item in question on the counter. Then he dropped his head once again and willed his little body to melt into the floor.
The woman then leaned over the counter, propping herself up on her elbows so she was more on Z’s level, and asked in a mixture of sternness and leniency that I have never been able to master, “Can you tell me what happened, young man?”
Z kept his head down, but raised his eyes up just enough to fix the woman with a boyishly-endearing, repentant gaze. “I picked this up and kinda taked it, even though it wasn’t mine.”
My heart was bursting with pride at his bravery, but my Mamma-bear Instinct was clawing its way to the surface. I had to chime in.
“This was laying on the floor with no tags, and he has one just like it. He picked it up and put it on and then just forgot about it and walked out the door. It wasn’t until a bit later that he realized it wasn’t really his.”
(Now before you go judging me for making excuses for him, you should know that Charles Manson’s mother still, to this day, maintains her son’s innocence and continues to write the whole murderous rampage thing off as a fiction created by Hollywood and the National Inquirer.)
Okay, fine. That’s not true. But I know my baby boy isn’t a villain! I had to make Target Lady see that!
Still on Z’s level, this kind woman spoke again and said, “Well, it sounds like it was just an accident. Is that right?”
Z nodded contritely.
“You were right to bring this back in. Now, you see this lady behind you?” She nodded an indication to the police officer. “She is here to make sure nobody takes things from the store when they shouldn’t.”
Two wide eyes zeroed in on the lady in blue and looked ready to over-flow with tears. But the police officer spoke with an equally kind and understanding voice.
“Thank you for bringing this back in. You did the right thing. And you won’t ever take anything from a store that doesn’t belong to you, right?”
Z nodded with enough enthusiasm to separate his atlas from his skull.
With the matter seemingly solved and the threat of my son’s impending imprisonment lifted, I turned my attention to the kind Customer Service Lady.
“And now,” I declared, “I have some items to return. And I HAVE my receipt.”
I’m not sure why I felt the need to exclaim this loudly. Perhaps I was reacting to an unwitting need to separate myself from Jesse James, Jr. Or maybe my Me-Instinct is actually a bit stronger than my Momma-Bear one. Regardless, we finished the transaction and, with a final word of thanks to both the Target Lady and the Police Lady, we left the building.
Exiting through the vestibule, I took a quick glance at the wall plastered with sales items and other advertisements looking for a Wanted Poster featuring Z’s snaggle-toothed school photo -- but, thankfully, it wasn’t there.
Yet.
When JAO returned from work, Z’s sidled up to him and whispered in his ear, “Daddy, I almost went to jail today.”
Now, I sit at my computer and raise a glass of wine in a silent toast that we never hear that sentence uttered from Z’s lips again.
But, I’m not counting on it.
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