The Blanket

I had a baby last week. My third. Grocery shopping has now become a fear of mine. Not because I'm afraid of germs or crabby cashiers, but because I don't know how to transfer three wiggly, rambunctious, disruptive kids through a store with only one butt-holder per cart.

But you have to do what you have to do. So today I "manned" up and went out while the oldest one was in school. We left later than I wanted to. So in a rush, I buckled my little ones in their car seats and drove off, worried that the baby would NEED to eat in the slot of time we were there. Of course I can't modestly accomplish that task while walking the aisles. So the alternative is to let her cry it out while all the non-parents in the store glare us down like we're Iraqi rebels.

Regardless, we needed cereal. And milk. And other obnoxious things that shouldn't run out as fast as they do.

So we arrive. I haul the 97-pound infant carrier and guide the reluctant, wandering-sheep-of-a-two-year-old across the parking lot and into the doors where we're greeted by Ray.

Ray is a half-toothless, short, stocky, white-haired man who never fails to shout out his usual, "And how are the three of you today?" Of course the number in his greeting fluctuates based on the number of children tagging along. Sometimes the question is followed by a comment about the weather, and sometimes the conversation dies, leaving an awkwardness while kids get situated for their trip through the store.

Today I snapped the baby into the cart, plopped the toddler into the basket (with a firm warning about staying seated) and brushed past Ray, as he squeaked out a "May I?" We jerked to a stop. I peeled my mind from its focus on speed, precise efficiency, the list, and getting the heck out of there before the baby woke up. And since I was already nearly through the doors, I rewound my steps until I was standing by Ray. I was feeling a bit impatient, but everyone deserves to take a gander at my perfect baby, right?

He started pulling back on the crocheted blanket I had draped over her. And as her face became easier to see, I heard a lady behind me let out the typical "Awe," and I knew she was in on the peep show. I proudly declared that she was "one week old today." It was at that point I realized that he wasn't really looking at the baby at all, but at the blanket.

"Oh, my mom made that for her."

He nodded his head in affirmation. He said he could tell by the skill that it was hand made by someone who loved her. He said it's the colors that were chosen and the stitches that were sewn that tipped him off. His wife used to make things like that all the time, he said.

"I just lost my wife."

Suddenly all my cares about the shopping trip or the potential to have a screaming baby in the store completely dissipated. It didn't matter if my baby was one week old or five years old.

His eyes were glazed with a sad fondness. My expression must have given away more than I was intending because he quickly reassured me that it's a good memory and something great to be reminded of. His compliments to my mom.