Dear Mr. Obviously Annoyed at Barnes and Noble,

Is it really necessary for you to stare while my normally sweet little girl has a full-blown meltdown? You've made it very clear you think I can't control the situation and you're probably right. She's tired and hungry. I'm buying the silly SkippyJon Jones book hoping that will tide her over, but in the meantime I'd like you to look the other way. It's a bookstore, not a library. You have no idea what else I have going on today.

In about two hours I'll be at the hospital trapped inside a loud, scary machine with an IV in my arm so they can take MRI images of my brain and spinal cord. If you knew that, would you be less judgmental? I'm totally stressed about this, but for now I need to focus on shopping for Father's Day gifts with my darling, screaming child.

I read somewhere once that if we all took our problems and put them in a pile in front of us, you'd take one look at everyone else's and quickly grab yours back. I believe it. It seems on my worst days, God has a way of making me see how much I should be thankful for. Sometimes, however, I wish we could all wear little labels just to give a little insight into what we're each dealing with and remind each other to play nicely. Short statements like, "Lost my job," "Car is totaled" or "I have a teenage girl" (YIKES!)

Just so you know, Emily morphed back into her sweet self after lunch and a long nap. I made it through my MRI with the help of the Ativan my doctor prescribed (1 = Relaxed, 2 = Loony Tunes. Now we know). I spent some time thinking about some of the labels my friends and family would wear to remind myself to be supportive, compassionate, and grateful.

Mr. Annoyed, If I ever see you again at the bookstore, I'll try to remind myself that you probably have your own label as well. Slim chance we'll see each other, though... Barnes and Noble is not likely to let us return after that performance.