There are days the world conspires against you.

It began at the doctor's office. I took my son to get vaccines, an event that is always filled with trauma — for me, not for him. To combat the pain from pokes, I took my boy to get chocolate milk in the medical building's cafe. I was taking money out of the ATM — and had just entered my PIN — when I heard a loud crash behind me.

A rack with sharp-edged pegs holding up bags of candy and trail mix had fallen onto my child. He was screaming, and not just from seeing his beloved gummy worms sprawled across the floor.

I ran over and attempted to lift the rack off my son. The pegs had wedged so tightly around his neck and arms that when I lifted the rack, he was lifted off the ground with it. I had to pry my child out of the metal contraption as he wailed, wild-eyed.

I stripped him down to assess his injuries from the sharp-edged pegs, while the workers in the cafe snorted snide remarks.

"This is what you get for not listening to your mommy," said the man.

"It's what you get for not better training your son," said the woman.

Ignoring them, I determined my son's scratches and cuts would leave him sore, but no real injury was endured. As my baby swallowed his tears, I grabbed a bottle of chocolate milk for him to drink.

"We didn't waive the payment on that," said the man.

What a darling human being.

It was then that I looked over at the ATM and saw a woman taking money out of the machine. Something felt wrong. Where did she come from? Barely any time had passed since I was there. My mind raced, but in the chaos, I couldn't think straight. I asked the woman at the ATM whether she saw my debit card. She said, "No." When I looked at my wallet, the woman hurried out of the cafe.

It was then I remembered I had the card but, more importantly, had abandoned the ATM after putting in my PIN.

I looked at the cafe worker and said, "I think I may have just been robbed."

"You gonna pay me for that milk your kid drank?" he responded. I rolled my eyes, took money out of the machine, paid for the milk and left as the cafe worker grumbled about having to clean up the rack of snacks by himself.

When I got to work, I contacted my bank, and an automated teller told me that $80 had been taken out of my account. I couldn't believe it. I had been robbed.

And so unraveled my disastrous day of karmic proportions, leaving me to wonder what I had done to deserve being robbed while saving my toddler from being impaled by a rack of gummies. Death by circus peanuts does not a good epitaph make.

My co-workers were furious, insisting I file a police report immediately. My mind was too fuzzy from the crazy morning to consider calling the cops. I told myself I should be grateful only $80 was stolen. But the more I told the tale the angrier I became.

By the time I arrived to pick up my son at day care, I was livid. A circle of parents surrounded me while I shared the story, emphasizing the possible impaling — as my son, perfectly healthy, ran around the playground. One parent suggested that the whole cafe experience was a setup. The thief must have thrown the snack rack onto my child purposefully so she could steal my money.

What kind of person would hurt a 2-year-old?

My anger was at its breaking point. This thief was going down!

Before I could leave the day care facility and head to the police station, I had to purchase school athletic wear for my son. Pulling my credit card out of my wallet, I noticed cash. That's funny; I never have cash on me, I thought. I counted it.

$77.

And that's when I remembered I had taken money out of the ATM to pay for the milk. The missing $80 the automated bank teller had told me about was my own withdrawal. In all the craziness, I had forgotten.

Oops.

There are days the world conspires against you. This was not one of those days.

Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. Check out her column at http://didionsbible.com. To find out more about Katiedid Langrock and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.