In which I seek out groceries

Getting out of the house, into the car and on the road without having to run back into the house for a forgotten item or having to negotiate seat-belting is a triumph for me these days.

It quite often takes longer to accomplish this task than it does to drive the distance to the grocery store, dance class or church. I take great pride in each successful start to a trip outside our home--short or long.

This afternoon, I had deftly strapped in a grouchy newborn, wiggling 2-year-old and a 4-year-old who suddenly felt the need to complain about how "tight" the seat belt felt and we were set to traverse about eight blocks to the grocery store. Shopping bags in hand, sunglasses on, we hit the road.

No sooner had I put the car into gear and started steering for the main road did I realize I had left the grocery list on the kitchen counter... about 200 feet from our parking space... behind our locked front door... up two flights of stairs. Ugh.

Forget the list! We were strapped in now and there was much hollering from the tiniest passenger in the back. I solicited a little assistance from L and C to help me remember all we needed once we got to the store. They agreed to scoop up the really important stuff, like Goldfish crackers and the fancy cans of fizzy water they love.

With only a slight pause to sort this all out, we were again on our way.

Baby still fussing, only louder and with more urgency, we arrived in the parking lot of our base's defense commissary. I unleashed the big kiddos first, then strapped the baby to my front and began dancing and shooshing our way to the automatic doors. Still, despite the fresh air and snuggle time with Mama, little H wailed.

Inside the store, L and C dutifully helped me bag produce, scoop up diaper packs and weave back and forth between the aisles as my brain jumped from cupboard to cupboard in our kitchen, trying to recall the items on that list I had left behind.

As the baby cried and I herded my little ducklings around the store, I became jealous of that little grocery list back home, which I was now picturing on its peaceful resting place in the afternoon warmth of my sunny and presently silent kitchen.

I began to fantasize that I was that list bathing in yellow sunlight. Ahh, how happy to be that little strip of lined paper with my monogram on it.

The sound of shattering glass snapped me back to my own florescent-lit reality, as I witnessed a jar of Newman's Own roasted garlic spaghetti sauce tumble to its doom on the shiny white laminate floor. I looked around and about four carts had converged on our location near the sauce display. All eyes were on me, my pint-sized helpers and my hollering baby. I was that woman with the screaming baby at the grocery store and I felt both sympathy and annoyance from the other shoppers.

"It wasn't us!" I lobbied. "We were just standing here and it fell."

It was true. We hadn't even been touching the display. None of us.

"It's OK," a gray-haired man consoled. "We're here to help each other out."

"I appreciate the help, but you don't understand. It wasn't our fault."

He wasn't buying it. No one was.

I fled the scene as I heard a somewhat exasperated-sounding voice on the intercom announce: "Wet clean-up on Aisle 5."

We made it through the frozen food section, where the baby had turned from yowling cat to bleating lamb as I hastily tossed bags of frozen peas and a ready-made pizza into the basket, then promptly stubbed my toe on the bottom of the cart.

On the homestretch to the checkout counter, I surveyed my half-empty shopping cart and realized I had enough ingredients to make about 30-percent of each meal I had planned for the week and I would be facing some very ugly looks from the bagger when I would have to explain that I'd forgotten to bring cash for their mandatory tip.

We paid for our groceries and headed for the door. At long last we reached our black Honda oasis. Inside that vehicle, I could sit for a good five minutes without feeling like an inconvenience, a stereotype or a magnet for sympathetic glances and all sorts of unspoken parenting judgments.

We could go home and get on with our day.

Instead of strapping everyone into their seats, I decided to enjoy that refuge for a moment longer while we had the privilege of that little parking space.

I shut the back hatch on our grocery bags and let the big kids roam freely in the backseat for a minute while I plopped down in my seat to nurse my poor, exhausted infant.

We tore into a fresh bag of Goldfish crackers and popped in a CD. Soon we were singing and munching to "Pete the Polite Pirate" and my baby boy had forgiven me for the 30 minutes of grocery-shopping torture I had inflicted upon him just moments before.

After adequately filling his belly, tiny H looked up at me, locked eyes and smiled, gums and all. I think he would have started to sing along with "Polite Pete" if he had known how.

You could call this picture a pretty nice ending to a bad day, but I wouldn't call today "bad." Things like this happen every day in my life.

There is no mundane for me. There is never a so-so moment to be had around here.

There are only peaks and valleys, and when you string them all together it makes for a pretty breathtaking mountain range.