I have a toddler, don’t cross me

Before BB I never would’ve believed for one second that going to the grocery store by myself could be a special treat. But it is. And I have a reasonable toddler for the grocery store. Whatever that means.

She loves shopping carts. She’s happy to munch on her piece of free fruit for at least 5-10 minutes and then the rest of the trip is a balance of talking, negotiating, being terrified of strangers and fighting me to hold and open every single thing I’m putting in the cart.

Most things she’s content to inspect and hold in her lap. A loaf of bread may get a little squished, but no big deal. She got her hands on a package of hot dogs last week. THAT was a mistake. I wasn’t paying attention and she was gnawing on the outside of the package so hard that the dogs were turning into more mush than they started out as. Yes I have snacks for her.

When I pull up to check out, it’s with a feeling of relief that we’ve made it and dread that anyone will say,

“She’s so good!”

Don’t say that. And if you really want to say it. Wait until my car leaves the parking lot. If we have a meltdown, we’re all going to wish you didn’t say that.

I’m waiting in a moderate line to check out. These last 10 minutes are always the ones I forget about, thinking I’ll show up and start checking out immediately.

An entitled white guy in his seventies walks up behind me. He has a small cart with 12 or fewer items. He says,

“You don’t mind if I go ahead of you do you?”

“Ha ha.” I assume he’s trying and failing to be funny.

“I’m serious. Do you mind if I go ahead of you? I don’t have many things.”

I give him BB’s best death stare. GET LOST BUDDY. I direct him to the other end of the store,

“Self-checkout is open down there.”

“I know.”

Good. Then go do that or wait patiently behind my charming daughter. If only I could cue a tantrum.

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Aggressive pre-snowstorm shoppers and a crazy pregnant lady

Going grocery shopping before a snow storm is never a good idea. But then when the snow storm hits and you don’t run out of Cheez-Its, it was worth it.

Baby Bop and I make our way through the store. She grabs anything. I try to be a little more discriminating. The mid-weekday grocery crowd is slow-moving. There are several people pushing around oxygen tanks.

One lady checking out has eight loaves of white bread and that’s it. She must be doing snow storm shopping for the ducks.

I start chatting with a pregnant woman. There’s a pet carrier in the cart. She tells me,

“I just got this puppy!”

“Adorable!” ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!

I screamed that in my head, but maybe it was also plastered on my face, because she adds,

“I’m due in 7 weeks, so maybe it was a mistake.”

Maybe.

Baby Bop is wearing pink and blue. I like all colors, but I especially like pink. Baby Bop’s blue eyes look good with blue. And so attired we head for the yogurt aisle. I’m bent over examining the selection. A woman raises her voice at me,

“Is that a boy or a girl?”

“Excuse me?” Why does this lady sound aggressive? She continues in a scolding tone,

“I can’t tell if your baby is a boy or a girl because of the pink and blue.”

I’m sorry she’s not wearing a t-shirt that says “I have a vagina.”