After a long day of learning about fractions and coloring, I was happy to meet my mom. There she stood with my younger sisters and her folding grocery cart. Now an emblem of my childhood, the cart meant terrible news: We’d all have to go along for grocery shopping.
Cindy, my youngest sister, was small enough to fit inside the cart. My mother pushed her while my other sister, Leslie, held on to the handle. I walked in front, distancing myself so they’d have to catch up. The faster we got there, the faster we could go home.
The
supermarket was a 10-minute walk away, but the trek through the aisles was
endless. I stood in the corner as my mother dug through the crate of bananas to
find the ripest bunch. She inspected every chicken leg and hot dog in the meat
aisle. I dragged my feet and kept my head down, until we reached the snacks.
The Little Debbie pastries were by the entrance. Bringing home brownies and honey buns could not justify the shopping trip, but it was a nice silver lining. My sisters and I buried more snacks in the cart. My mom rarely said no, but we hid them at the bottom whenever she did. Once we got to checkout, it would be too late to return the snacks to the shelf. Victory for us.
On this particular trip to the store, all of our food came to about a hundred dollars. I felt worse with every bill she counted, but she had to hand over the wad of cash anyway. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for the gallon-sized tub of ice cream. My guilt was soon replaced with frustration when I realized I’d have to carry the tub and everything else that wouldn’t fit in the cart. Little Cindy carried the bread.
These days I ask myself how my mother managed to wrangle us together while we buried juice boxes and sweets under the real food she’d selected to sustain us. Maybe it was fun to spend an afternoon with her children, even if we complained and begged her to hurry up. She’d still bring us along the next week. As I grew older, I started to understand. Hosting grocery trips became my chance to spend a few hours with my family.
A weekend Target trip was like Christmas morning. Everyone was asleep, and I should’ve been in bed too, but instead I was filled with anticipation. I insisted that I couldn’t carry all the groceries by myself and invited Cindy and Leslie to come along. The girls complained but eventually agreed, just like the old days. They livened up after breakfast— a cup of coffee and a butter croissant from Starbucks.
We caught the 9:00 a.m. bus on time and made it to Target within an hour. The number of shopping carts at the door was an indicator of how few shoppers were inside. The store was like a playground we had all to ourselves.
We took sips and bites as we browsed the aisles and filled our cart. I liked to stick to the list, but the girls threw in whatever they wanted. I grabbed the hand soap and toothpaste while they added lip balm and face wash. Nothing in the food aisles was off-limits. Stocking up on pasta and broccoli was just as important as splurging on chips and mini muffins. Our cart was filled with everything on my list, along with whatever they happened to add.
I didn’t realize how much money I would have to spend until we reached the checkout. But swiping my credit card was fast and painless. I could justify every item, because that’s what the girls wanted.
The cashier handed me the receipt. I spent over a hundred dollars, but I saved $35. I carried the heaviest bags, and wished only that I had a grocery cart of my own.
