Groceries and Lost Mom's

 Yesterday, I was uncommonly alone on my weekly grocery trip. Usually, I balance a toddler on one hip and jumble the half full cart across the laminated floor with an inevitable squeaky wheel. But this day, I had the luxury of open arms.  

Walking through the sliding glass doors below the “ENTER HERE” sign I wrestled an available cart out of the cart chain, wiped it down and moved forward ho. 

 

I was aware as I crossed the inner threshold directing towards the produce section that a young mother with long blond hair stood with three grocery store workers in blue and gold work vests. A small infant rested wide eyed in the mother’s stroller as she absentmindedly pushed the stroller back and forth. A diaper bag strewn over her shoulder, the mother’s face was obscured, looking down at her phone, texting. The three store employees spoke on walkie talkies- their overlapping voices were gibberish. 

 

I just so happened to pass them when one of the workers paused and asked the distraught mother “Do you think he went to your car?” and I saw the mother wordlessly shake her lifted head, eyes sweeping urgently searching across the store. 

 

I was reviewing my grocery list in hand, preoccupied with planning my route through the store; noticing this simple exchange was just background to my errand. 

 

Turning down the isle of soup cans and boxed seasonings I almost ran over a small prekindergarten age boy. His frightened doe eyes shown bright blue contrasted by his red flannel shirt, my cart screeched to a stop, his thick blond mopped head didn’t clear the height of my basket.

The isle was devoid of people. He was alone.

 

Clarity dawned on me. The panicked expression of the woman near the store entry fresh in my mind now. 

 

“Is your mom lost?” I asked him.

Seeing he was afraid and unsure if he should talk to a stranger, another woman who had been passing nearby, halted when she overheard my question. 

 

Clearly a grandma, grey hair curled short, she wore high rise ankle tapered mom jeans, white tennis shoes and a blue sweatshirt with hand embroidered designs on the front, dangling plastic heart earrings swinging wildly as she surveyed around us looking for the lost mom. 

 

The boys face on the verge of tears, eyes watering, he nodded his head to me. 

 

Grandma and I transformed into superheroes. You could imagine both of our capes exploding in a gust of wind as we each postured our bodies scanning the crowd around us; suspiciously watching the perimeter for predators and kidnappers. 

 

“It’s okay.” I told the boy. “I know where your mom is.” I didn’t reach out to touch him but motioned for him to follow me in a “no nonsense” gesture, leaving the cart stranded beside the chicken gumbo.

 

The grandmother took her place behind him, our alliance formed, the three of us filing into order. 

I led the front of the line, this scared boy sandwiched between; grandma guarding our caboose- she may as well have had a sword drawn. 

 

It was just fifty or so feet until the little guy saw his worried mother standing in the entry; instantly, darting out of our protective convoy and rushing into her arms. 

 

She scooped him up losing her fragile composure and began to cry, clinging to her son. 

The grocery workers, grandma, and I all heaved a sigh of relief. Disaster abated.

 

Grandma and I turned away catching each other’s eye. 

“We’ve all had a kid run off in the store, haven’t we?” She wasn’t really asking; and I smiled. 

We parted ways. 

 

Unless you know- you don’t know. 

If you are a mom, or someday will be I promise, your child will hide from you in the grocery store. And, we other mothers, will do our best to catch them. Just like the other mothers caught ours when it happened to us. 

I partnered with other women to tell their stories of motherhood, the stories that aren't shared with badges and ribbons, in a book titled Unspoken Motherhood. Stories of PostPartum, Miscarriage, Child loss, adoption, and more. 

See it here:

Unspoken Motherhood