For months, I pitched a tent every Saturday and every Thursday at Farmer's Markets. I paid rent for the 10x10 space, and I paid to have an assistant help me. Week after week, I lost money as people walked past our tent without a passing glance or fingered a couple hair bows and then walked away. Sometimes we got a sweet lady who would sign up for our mailing list and spend more than $3.00 on what we were selling, but most of the time, our fancy diaper bags, ladies' dresses, jewelry, and other treasures sat untouched until it was time to pack our big silver van up again. But I had hope. Great hope that if I opened a "real" store, people would come. They would love it. They would spend their money. I would stop watching my bank account drain like water from a rusty bucket.
After some debate over our company name we opened a store called "Baby Vie." Baby Vie means "Baby Life," and we carried maternity-baby items-"regular" women's clothing as well as diaper bags, gifts, and accessories. The concept was that a busy mom or mom to be could do one stop shopping in the local strip mall. Groceries. Coffee. Dry Cleaning. Baby/mom shopping. Up and down, I swore to my SCORE mentor, my husband, my kids, anybody who would listen that this idea was fail proof. The moms would come. They would be grateful and appreciative. And they would spend their money.
Months went by, and the moms didn't come. Nobody really came. I built social media pages and sent e-mails and merchandised and bought more inventory and hoped...always so solid in my hope...that the customers would come.
As we struggled to launch the store, I found out I was pregnant with #9...unexpectedly so, but joyously expecting. And not long after that...the change, the news, the diagnosis, the cancer...Our 8 year old son, Nick, was diagnosed with cancer less than 6 months after Baby Vie was opened. Our sweet second grader had medulloblastoma, brain cancer. Surgery, radiation, and 55 weeks of chemo followed. Kensie Rose was born. A sweet, sassy flower in the midst of the great expanses of gray I saw and heard and felt during Nick's treatment. Nick's prognosis looked good. His side effects were minimal considering what they could have been. And I had hope. Not bright glowing sunshiny hope like I had before his cancer, but I had hope that he would stay with us for a while longer, and Kensie would have a chance to know her biggest brother.
When I was going through Nick's treatment with him, I would place orders for the store online at 2:00 am from the hospital room. I would e-mail employees occasionally, and I would rarely stop by to check on the store or host a happy hour there. During this time, the store was losing money more rapidly than ever. Our personal bills reached unreal heights, and we went into foreclosure on our home.
Even as the house took a year and a half to sell, and the store continued to limp along splishing and splashing money out of that rusty bucket, I had hope. We changed the store name to Mini & Me, and we opened an online store. We hired interior designers and merchandisers and marketing specialists. We brought more trendy women's clothing and jewelry in, and we met some really great customers who loved what we did with the place. For a minute, we had hope...I had hope...that despite literally losing every single dime of savings I ever had...this "new" store, Mini & Me, would pull us out of the rubble of Baby Vie. Mini & Me was supposed to rise out of Baby Vie's ashes, and I was on track to be a hero. Nick's hair grew back, he was healthy and cancer free, and my hope swelled.
Thankfully, Nick has sustained his good, cancer free, health. Except for some growth problems we are having successfully treated, he is thriving. An MRI last weekend confirmed that his brain and spine continue to have "no evidence of disease," and for that I am ecstatically, dancing in the rain, howling at the wind, smiling with my whole body happy and grateful.
Unfortunately, Mini & Me has stayed disappointing at best. It's fun and interesting, but financially...well, let's just say the economic recovery hasn't quite made it's way into our little corner of the mall yet. As our lease is coming to the end of its tenure, it's time to consider giving up hope on this version of Mini & Me. Don't misunderstand, I love what I do, but the model needs some tweeking. Retail is a lot of work, but if you love it, it always feels like fun to shop and discover and merchandise and market and watch your customer walk out happy. But I've discovered through Nick's illness that I also have a passion for fundraising for children's cancer research and patient care. I've found my voice is strongest, my skills their sharpest, my generosity most boundless when I am working for the oncology kids and their families.
So maybe it's time to lose hope in Mini & Me where it is...and how it is...and re-invent our store and our business plan and even my personal life plan to create something I can have hope in. Maybe it's time to create a business and a life that merges my personal passions, gifts, and financial needs with my dreams and goals of providing financial support to childhood cancer research, raising money and gift cards to help cancer families get by while in treatment and recovery, and donating comfort items like blankets, hats, and toys to the kids going through treatment.
Although an unlikely source of wisdom, Marilyn Monroe might have said it best...
“I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.”
In my perfect, hopeful, world, I would like to create a space in real life and online (www.miniandmeboutique.com) that celebrates curated goods, both designer and handmade--local and exotic--and offers a retail experience that will be enjoyed by the customers and finally profited from by my family. (Please don't get all huffy at me there...We work really hard, and we deserve to eat once in a while, too.) This dream store will give at least 10% of its profits to childhood cancer patients and research and local children's hospitals. We will host fundraisers and fashion shows and parties, and our clients and guests will support our cause and our store and celebrate our philanthropic and business successes.
These 4 years have changed me. I don't have that sunshiny, song singing, dizzy dancing in circles kind of hope I had before Nick's cancer and the personal and financial struggles I have encountered being self employed. I walk with shadows now. and I walk more carefully and deliberately now. But I will keep moving forward with new dreams on new days, and I will help other kids like Nick and other parents like me. And I hope...see that, always with the hope...that however these new dreams manifest, they come together to make life better for everyone they wash over.
