My turning point came the day a man yelled at me from his car. Those words—they’re etched into my memory forever.
He must have seen us through the grocery store windows. It was our first time going in without a stroller. “Everybody do good listening for Momma, okay?” I asked. Six innocent eyes peered back at me, wide with anticipation.
We formed the cutest handholding chain I’d ever seen. I held my oldest daughter’s hand—almost six, wearing a pink ball gown she swore was designed by Pnina Tornai, though it was a Costco bargain, complete with red cowboy boots and a rainbow wig. She held hands with our newest additions, the twin tornadoes: Twin B, who refused to leave the house without a bright green arm warmer and his sister’s hat, and Twin A, covered in a mixture of guacamole and applesauce. It took us a full ten minutes to get through the revolving door, but somehow, we managed.
We were on a mission. Not only had we graduated from the uncertainty of whether Jordan would ever speak, we were now working on real-life functional skills. My daughter proudly remembered the four items on our shopping list, a skill she had been practicing all week. With the support of her therapists, she used a modified Picture Exchange Communication System (PECS) to match pictures of items to her cart: strawberries, milk, popsicles, and chocolate chip muffins.
Aisle #1: A stranger smiled at us in the produce section. “Looks like you have your hands full.”
“Yes,” I chirped, “It’s our first time without the stroller.”
“Strawberries!” my daughter shouted, spotting the first item. And off they went.
Despite two of my three children wearing orthotics, and one technically not supposed to walk, they moved faster than I could ever anticipate. Their physical therapists would have been thrilled. Unfortunately, the produce shelves weren’t built for toddlers. Five cartons of blueberries toppled out of the cart, creating a small berry avalanche on the floor. Twin B sat down to eat them. “Yum, berries,” he said. Twin A giggled uncontrollably while our fearless leader shouted, “Not on the list! Only strawberries!”
Aisle #2: I bribed Twin A with a lollipop to sit in the cart while Twin B held my hand singing. A fellow shopper stopped us at the deli counter. “Looks like you have your hands full. I have two kids—one’s a newborn. I don’t think I’ll ever take them to the store.”
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, “I’m supposed to have three children.”
Don’t worry about helping—just watch me juggle a child into the cart while his twin grabbed my glasses. “Nose,” he shouted.
“Yes, honey, that is Mommy’s nose. Jordan! Can you hear me? Has anyone seen a little girl in a pink dress and wig? There can’t be many in the store. Jordan, Mommy can’t see you!”
I finally reached the snack aisle, my face a perfect picture of panic.
“Hi, Mommy,” my daughter said calmly, holding a bag of pretzels. “Not on the list. Keep going.”
Aisle #3: Now Twin B was bribed with a lollipop, and Twin A insisted on pushing the cart while I carried him. My daughter led us toward the milk aisle. We passed a maintenance worker bent over the lobster tank, his pants… less than perfect.
“Look, Mommy, tushy!” my daughter pointed.
“Yes, honey, I see it. Let’s keep moving.” I grabbed the milk with one arm and tossed it into the cart while heading toward item three.
Aisle #4: Everyone was in the cart now, blueberry stains on their pants, devouring the popsicles I just returned to the shelf. Of course, I had forgotten wipes in the car. An elderly woman with a cart full of avocados and cantaloupes gave me a knowing look.
“Well, you sure have…”
“…my hands full. Yes,” I finished for her.
Approaching the final aisle, I complimented my daughter on her shopping skills. This was a big deal for her, and finishing the task mattered. She was most excited for item four: the chocolate chip muffins. I, too, was thrilled—it meant we could finally go home.
We turned the corner… and they were sold out.
“What about blueberry muffins?” I offered.
“No! The list says chocolate chip!” she replied firmly.
For a child, especially one with special needs, the gap between expectation and reality is painful. I braced myself for the breakdown. Contingency plan in place, I wasn’t far from the beer aisle.
“Mommy,” she took a deep breath. “No muffins. Let’s go home. My list done.”
This momentous occasion practically made me float out of the store. We didn’t exactly float—Twin B signed the credit card receipt, we knocked over a candy display, and my daughter performed a spot-on rendition of an Ariana Grande song (less appropriate, but that’s another story).
We piled into the car, fifty minutes after arriving, four items in our bag. As I buckled the last car seat, a man’s voice called from his car.
“Hey, lady—”
“Yes?”
“I saw you in there. You are a terrific mother. Have a great day.”
Thank you, kind stranger. I will have a great day. A great day spent figuring out how to turn strawberries, milk, and popsicles into dinner—because while we were at the grocery store, there was absolutely no time for that.
