COMEDY - 'Of Clothes and Cops'

Of Clothes and Cops

     I like to go thrift-store shopping.  Sometimes I wish I didn’t like it so much.  Ever wonder how a person can go into a room filled with things other people didn’t want and come out with a load of sudden treasures?  Isn’t shopping supposed to be all about finding that outfit or that unique item people will admire.  Oh well, never mind.  I really do know why I go.  I have eight growing children who always seem to be needing clothes.  Thrift shopping seems to be the only affordable way to go.  But ever try to shop with eight children?  “Can I have this?” or “Can I buy that?” constantly rings in my ears.  Shopping with this many children can be quite a challenge and requires God-given mental fortitude. 

     We have adopted an essential system in our family that we call ‘partners’.  Each older child is responsible for helping with the care of a younger child.  When we get to the middle pair, their basic responsibility is only to stick together.  My nine year old son is a ‘partner’ for my seven year old daughter.  One day we all went to the thrift store and the children split into their ‘partner’ pairs to go look for their own treasures while I fumbled through the clothes racks.  After a while, my seven year old came up to me wiggling and doing the dance.  “Mommy, I have to go potty willy bad.” 

     “Ok,” I said, scanning the racks for her ‘partner’.  I called him over and showed him where the bathrooms were.  “Stand guard for your sister at the bathrooms and come back here when she’s done,” I instructed my nine year old son.  Nodding his head, he and his sister headed off.  A little while later they were back and my son was a bit excited.  “I want a ride in a police car,” he announced excitedly.

 

     “That would be nice,” I replied.  “Maybe when you’re older, one of your daddy’s friends can take you on a ride like they did him.”  “But Mommy,” he looked at me, pleading expectantly, “I know how I can get a ride right now. When I was at the bathrooms, I saw a sign hanging on the wall by the door that said if you shopped left you could get a free ride in a police car.  Which aisle is left, Mommy?  Can we do it…please?”  I paused for a minute trying to process what I had only been half listening to, when it hit me what he had seen. 

     “Oh Honey,” I replied, trying to stifle irresistible laughter.  “To get a free ride in the police car I would have to take some things and leave here without paying for them.  It was a warning, Son, not an advertisement.”  Disappointed, he turned to walk away. 

     My seven year old daughter was sure to remind me, “Mommy, don’t forget to find me some new pajamas…mine are growing out of me.”  They went off to find their treasures.  I already have mine.