The Cone of Shame

It happened again last week.

I entered the Cone of Shame.

If you have kids, you’ve been there.

It started out innocently enough. Everyone was smiling as I announced that we (that would be me and my three littles) were going to the store and then we were going to get French fries!(They were. I was getting a fruit cup).

The goodwill lasted until we got just enough stuff in the buggy to make it hard for me to abort the mission. Not to mention that my supper and a few other projects were contingent on the success of this endeavor.

Drew sat in the front, grabbing at everything. And he’s fast.

James and Emma took up most of the back of the cart, James manhandling the vegetables.

And Emma?

Well, what can I tell you. Emma did not want to be there.

And while expressing herself with words is challenging for her, she is a pro at expressing her displeasure.

The wails.

The tears.

The sobs.

I write fiction and I can’t make this stuff up. You’d have thought I had just told her she could never watch TV, never play on the computer, never see her grandparents, and never have another French fry again.

I tried everything.

I sang.

Oh, yes I did. Racewalking through the aisles, I sang her favorites. No luck.

I pretended to sneeze.

Oh, yes I did.

She usually thinks that’s hilarious.

Not this time.

I tried to reason with her. I reminded her we were getting French fries.

Nothing worked.

When I had loaded the cart with half of what I came for, I couldn’t take it anymore. I knew I’d be making a return trip, but at least I’d gotten the most important items.

I sped to the registers.

They had three open.

All three had long lines.

Oh, sure, the self-checkout lanes were open, but if “Buggy Diving” was an Olympic sport, my kids would be the World Record Setting Gold Medalists. Self-checkout is like asking to add a trip to the emergency room to the bill.

No thank you.

So I got in line behind an older woman with a buggy mounded to the heavens.

As I stood there, allowing Drew to play with my cell phone, saying soothing words to Emma (and to myself), reminding James that French fries were coming, I watched my fellow shoppers.

But let me tell you, they weren’t watching me.

No sir.

I had entered the Cone of Shame.

It radiates out from anyone responsible for a screaming child in a public place. In the fifteen minutes we waited, not one person—not one—smiled at me. They didn’t even look at me.

They looked everywhere but me. A few huffed.

My usual response in this situation is to grab a Coke and a Hershey Bar with Almonds. This time I tried to stay in the moment. Tried to process how I was feeling.

And I wasn’t feeling shame.

Was I frustrated? Sure. But I’m not ashamed of my daughter. I’m not ashamed to be her mom.

The Cone of Shame isn’t about the person on the inside. It’s about the people on the outside who are too caught up in their own agendas to offer a smile to a frazzled mom. Too busy to allow her to go in front of them in line. Too conceited to imagine that there might be a good reason for the drama.

Emma turns nine on Wednesday.

If you encounter the Cone of Shame this week, maybe you could think of Emma and celebrate her life by refusing to stay on the outside.

Smiles are free.

Five minutes of your time could bless someone for a week.

A silent prayer is more helpful than a loud sigh.

If you take the opportunity to splash some grace, well, there’d be no shame in that!

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