The Kindness of Strangers

Markets are, generally, the best places to buy fruit and veg.  The produce is fresh, inexpensive and varied, and you are supporting small business owners when you patronise their stalls.  These people work HARD.  And they provide an excellent product at bargain prices.

Unfortunately, everyone who lives anywhere that there is a market knows this.  And so the prospect of going to buy your weekly fruit and veg on one of the three days the market is open each week fills you with a kind of delicious anticipation (that much stuff for only 40 bucks???) versus a kind of anxious dread (all those people!).

I was faced with these conflicting emotions yesterday, when, looking into my veggie bin containing two wrinkly baby eggplants, some corn on the cob I was too scared to peel and a bag of wilted lettuce, I knew that I would have to go. Normally the prospect of that much stuff for only 40 bucks would easily have won out over all those people, but this time I had to take P with me.  M was studying hard and it wouldn't be fair for me to leave her with him.  

I knew I couldn't manoeuvre a pram through the thronging crowds and tiny walkways at the market, so after some thought I decided to utilise my Baby Bjorn, the wonderful sling that suspends your baby, happily secure and kicking, on your chest like some kind of reverse pregnancy.  Never mind that she weighs nearly nine kilos now, and I need to have surgery on one of my shoulders, this will be a cinch.

The traffic on the way to the markets is unusually heavy for a Sunday afternoon.  Oh no, I realise, there is football on. Now, the footy ground in Perth is walking distance from the markets I was going to.  This was going to be fun.  As usual, there was little to no parking near the markets, and the rather dark and scary smell wafting towards me from the back seat told me that P had pooed, and would have to be changed before I started shopping.  Luckily, I always carry a spare few nappies in the car, and some wipes.  

P is a baby who, like most babies of her age, when it comes to nappy changes would rather be doing just about anything else.  She is also remarkably strong, and does NOT like to be laid on her back.  Unfortunately for her (and me) this is the tried-and-true superior position for changing a nappy.  My MO at home for nappy-changes is Restrain, Distract, Exchange, Congratulate;

Restrain:  Strap baby securely into change table with tightest possible setting on strap that will not render baby unable to breathe.

Distract: Curb inevitable instant protest and attempt to turn onto stomach with mirror, tube of something normally forbidden, soft toy containing rattle or rustly piece of paper.  (Note - at this point, never EVER sing to the baby.  They will know it is a diversionary tactic and they can scream louder than you can sing).

Exchange: Whip soiled nappy off, wipe bottom and get new nappy positioned with such practiced economy of movement that you can do it all in less than 10 seconds.  Fight off baby's suddenly appearing 19 sets of arms and legs, do new nappy up, blow quick raspberry on stomach (hers, not yours), re-dress baby.

Congratulate: Loudly and cheerfully commend baby for being SUCH a patient, good girl and putting up with the imposition of having nice warm bum exposed to cold air, even colder wet wipes, and inevitable comments on how cute and squeezable it is.

There are no public toilets around the markets that I would take P into and certainly none with nappy-changing facilities and a change table with a restraint - I would have to change her in the back of the car.  This was going to be fun.  

After pulling into my parking space I set up the back seat for what I hoped to be a stress-free nappy change.  I got out my bag of spare nappies.  Oh crap.  The package says 4 - 8kg.  These have been in here for a while.  Well, I thought, perhaps I could squeeze one on her just for now.  I extracted several wipes from the box and, the set-up complete, went around the other side and got her out of the car.

We did not get off to a good start.  P has a cold and lying on her back, on top of her usual aversion, makes it difficult for her to breathe.  Within two seconds of laying her down she was on her hands and knees, trying to crawl away.  Not fussed, I left her that way while I unbuttoned her suit and undid her nappy.  Luckily for me, this was not a big poo.  A happy little nugget was all she had been able to manage.  I wrapped up the nappy and wiped her cute and squeezable bum.  Setting up the fresh nappy, I lay her back down on top of it and was rewarded with an instant, ear-splitting, gut-wrenching scream of anger and frustration.  Several football-goers stopped to look at me, with `what ARE you doing to your baby?' expressions.  I looked back at them with what I hoped was an `I hope your team gets slaughtered' expression.  

The fresh nappy wasn't even big enough to cover her bum, let alone do up and be adequate protection.  Oh dear.  No nappy.  Young baby.  Sunday afternoon.  Nothing open.  The prospect of suspending her on my chest nappy-free was not inviting.  

Well, necessity breeding invention led me to the conclusion that emptying the happy little nugget into the bin and putting her old nappy back on her was the best solution I had.  This, of course, involved finding a bin.  It also involved wrapping up a small piece of poo in wet wipes, and carrying my nappy-less daughter with me to said bin, hoping against accident on the way.  

After achieving all of this and managing to wrestle her old nappy back onto her and get her suit done back up, accompanied by more murderous screams echoing around the underground carpark, I was hot, sweaty and not looking forward to the prospect of fighting my way through crowds of shoppers, one hour before the market closed for the week. I had conveniently overlooked the `strictly no market parking' sign outside where I had put the car and it was a bit of a trek to the markets.  

Shoulders back, P in sling, a shake of the head and a deep breath and off we went.  

The markets, predictably, were chaotic.  I made a beeline for the shrieks of `one dollar!  one dollar!  one dollar!' I could hear, not more than a few metres away.  This was going to be great.  Navigating your way through tightly packed crowds of people with a large baby poking out of your chest isn't easy.  But when I got to the one dollar table I knew that the 20 minutes spent getting there was worth it.  I packed my basket full of bags of apples, mushrooms, capsicums, avocados and bananas, paid my five dollars to the vendor and then was given pause.  How am I going to carry these bags and my basket, and shop for the rest of the food I needed?  I only had two hands, and they could only be used pretty strictly by my sides, given said large baby poking out of chest.

This required some thought.  

Making my way through further crowds, down the pathway a bit, I spotted a stall that was less busy.  Brilliant.  I could leave my basket on the ground, put my bags down and get the things I need, returning to the basket to deposit each item periodically.  This was all going to be fine.  Plus, P was having a lovely time, faced with all these new and colourful objects, smiling at people and charming them, being adorable.

The only problem arose when I got back to my basket and found that I couldn't lift it.  It had to weigh at least 15kg and my right arm being what it is at present, I couldn't get it onto the counter.  But I wasn't willing to give up one snap pea to make this easier.  I smiled helplessly at the kind-looking, tiny, 107-year-old lady who was operating the register, and she deftly swung my basket up onto the bench with her little finger, bowing at me and grinning at P.  

As the bags filled up and my basket emptied, I began to wonder how on earth I was going to get all this stuff back to the car.  My eco-bags that I thought were in the car were not, and I was looking at eight flimsy plastic ones carrying my 15kg of fruit and veg.  Bracing myself, I paid (all that stuff for 40 bucks!!), picked up four bags with each hand, and began the slow struggle back to the market exit.  

The crowds had multiplied.  The frenzy of the final-hour bargain was on.  Multitudes of shoppers, all travelling in slightly different directions, blocked my path - any path.  My arms were slowly stretching with the weight of my bags, my fingers and hands losing their blood supply to the strangling pinch of the bags' handles.  P's weight was slowly bearing down.  I was dripping with sweat.  People were looking at me with an odd mixture of sympathy and schadenfreude.  But we were all in pretty much the same boat.  Lots of great food, a home to take it to, no prospect of getting there before nightfall.

Finally, a fresh draft of air hit my face.  I was nearly there!  With renewed vigour I tried to step up my pace.  There it was!  The light!  The exit!  The crowds were dispersing!  Only a few more metres and ahhhhhhhhhhhhh ... freedom.  I made my way quickly across the road and headed for a cafe where I could put my bags down and get a breather.  

Sadly, before I got there, two of them broke.  Apples went rolling away.  Mushrooms exploded around me like miniature atom bombs.  Half a watermelon landed on my foot.  Left with a choice between hysterical laughter and despairing tears, I chose neither.  I smiled weakly at two girls sitting at the cafe, put my bags down and bent, daughter and all, to collect my goods, my sweat dripping onto the pavement, my bloodless fingers clutching uselessly around me.

Before I could grasp the first apple, the girls were on their feet, picking up all my scattered food and re-packing it for me. And - wonder of wonders - offering to carry it all to my car!  Unable to turn down this magical offer, I accepted, and was rewarded with a lovely conversation with a lovely girl, who carried my bags while I carried my baby, and then packed them all into my car for me, giving me a delightful smile and then disappearing back up the carpark travellator to her waiting noodles.  

Now, unlike Blanche Dubois, I have not always depended on the kindness of strangers, but sometimes it can make your whole day.