bless you, sir or madam

You winked at me and said "you look beautiful." Um, I did not look beautiful. I was 39 weeks and 4 days pregnant. I was wearing leggings, granny panties, and sneakers. I was sweaty like an attic push-up champion. Thank you for your mercy. Bless you, sir.

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You reached across the aisle in the airplane to rub my back. I had been rocking and shushing a screaming 8-month-old Chicken for almost half an hour. He was so tired but couldn't fall asleep, fighting like a warrior poet to stay awake so he could KEEP SCREAMING. You said, "it's only loud to you. You're doing great." I have remembered and passed on your words many times since. Bless you, madam.

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You had just gotten your 5-year-old situated in the airplane chair at the kids' salon. I came in with Chicken for his 10:30 haircut, and the receptionist told me they'd had us down for 10:00. I showed her my appointment card, which said 10:30, and she said she was sorry but everyone was working, and I could come back at 2. You cut in and said, "Why don't you take the airplane chair. We are wide open today, and we don't have to work around naps like you do. We can come back at 2." You collected your son out of the airplane chair. He'd already had his spa cape clipped on. That was uncommonly kind and thoughtful of you. Bless you, madam.

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In art class, Chicken put two heaping handfuls of neon green Gak in his hair and rubbed it in like shampoo. (Gak is like 15 parts Elmer's glue and 1 part Borax and should be on a WMD list somewhere.) You ran to your bag and brought me a fine-tooth comb. I spent the next 30 minutes combing Gak out of Chicken's hair, racing against the slowly-hardening-not-of-God's-creation-is-it-liquid-or-is-it-solid-I-DON'T-CARE-JUST-GET-IT-OUT Gak clock. Your comb looked like the Ghostbusters slime monster had pooped on it, but Chicken's hair was Gak-free. You complimented ME on my quick thinking. Thank you for volunteering a comb to give the last full measure of devotion. Bless you, madam.