Everyone knows that the cardinal rule of grocery shopping is to get in the shortest checkout line. It is absolutely crucial to follow this rule when you’re grocery shopping with your baby, because babies have a tendency to be angelic throughout entire the entire shopping trip, then come unglued the second you get to the checkout and can’t hold them because you’ve got to unload your buggy, fish your wallet out of your purse, pay, and be otherwise incapacitated.

Unless, of course, a Walmart cashier claims your baby as her baby.Which is what happened to me–inevitably, I suppose given my relationship with Walmart.

Two weeks ago I was speeding toward the checkout lanes, eyes scanning each conveyor belt for the one with the fewest groceries. The shortest lanes–indeed, open and completely empty, as it was bright and early Monday  morning–were the 20 Items or Fewer registers (Yes–the signs actually say “20 Items or Less,” but that’s grammatically incorrect so I refuse to write it), but as I was doing a week’s worth of shopping, I passed them by without so much as a glance.

Until one of the express cashiers called out, “Hey, baby!” which stopped me in my tracks. Not because I thought I was getting hit on, but because the cashier, a middle-aged woman, was speaking literally– I’ve been stopped enough while grocery shopping to know when someone is talking to the Burt Squirt.

I paused in my pursuit of the shortest checkout line to indulge the friendly (and no doubt bored) cashier, pleased to see that I recognized her. Once upon a time, she told me the Burt Squirt was juicy. She’d checked me out lots of times since then–not surprising, since I do my grocery shopping every Monday around the same time, though she wasn’t normally in the express lanes, for which, as I mentioned, I had too many groceries. So, after we exchanged pleasantries (or rather, she flirted with the Burt Squirt: “Your mama didn’t see me, but you saw me, and you grinned, didn’t you, baby! Yes, you know me, big boy!”), I started to wheel my cart around in search of another register.

“Y’all come over here to me!” she said, and wouldn’t hear my protests about having a good deal more than twenty items. “I gotta talk to my baby, see what new with him!”

It was at this point that I realized, to my chagrin, that I’d never bothered to find out her name, even though it had been right there pinned to her blue polo shirt for me to read every time she’d rung up my groceries. Tempie–I could remember that, since the Dallas Classical radio station’s daytime announcer is named Tempie.

As Walmart Tempie rang us up, she kept up a running conversation with Liam, as well as with the customer behind me in line: “This my Monday baby! Look how he smile at me! Oh, he waving now–he know it time to go, mmm-hmm, he know it!”

Last Monday Tempie wasn’t working the self-checkouts, but was back at her usual lane–which happened to be the shortest, so I got in it. Before she’d even finished scanning all her current customer’s groceries, she’d spotted us farther back in line and was saying, “There’s my Monday baby! He smiling at me–he know his friend!”

His friend.

She wasn’t his cashier.

He wasn’t her customer.

Friends.

For the first time since I began making dreaded weekly grocery shopping trips, it occurred to me that more goes on in Walmart than just hurrying in, checking off all the items on my list, and hurrying back out again. (More, even, than having another funny encounter to add to my collection of vaguely amusing anecdotes.)

Today I broke the cardinal rule of grocery shopping. I didn’t get in the shortest checkout line. I looked for Tempie, and I got in her line, which was, in fact, the longest. But the smile that lit up her tired face when she saw the Burt Squirt was worth the wait–if, indeed, we did wait any extra time; I thought the rhythmic beep beep of the bar code scanner accelerated, as if Tempie was in a hurry to finish up with her other customer so she could talk to the Burt Squirt properly.

Or maybe she didn’t work any faster. Maybe I just realized there was no need to rush, that there are more unpleasant things I could have been doing this morning than listening to a grocery store cashier tell a total stranger how nice my–her–baby is who comes to see her every Monday.

Even if–especially if–it’s at Walmart.

Mr. Burt doesn’t know it, but today two old men saved him about $100.

We were in Macy’s with Mr. Burt’s grandparents, parents, sister, and nieces, and on our way out of the store, my mother-in-law and I got waylaid by a lot of really adorable coats. We share a bit of a fetish, my mother-in-law’s more justifiable than mine being that she lives in Minnesota and actually wears a coat more than two days a year–though I am convinced that only one coat-wearing day a year would have justified the purchase of this particularly adorable coat that caught my eye. It was hot pink wool, after all. With ruffles.

As was the lingerie sported by the mannequin kitty-corner from the coat I was admiring.

The lingerie, naturally, was being admired by a couple of old men.

Only it wasn’t, quite.

If these had been people of Walmart, I wouldn’t have taken any interest in skeezy old men cracking crude jokes as the ogled the white plastic buttcheeks of a thong-wearing dummy. As it was, these were people of Macy’s, of the sort who wore newsboy caps and carried themselves in a way that demanded I refer to them, even mentally, as “gentlemen of a certain age.”

Not that the sex industry hasn’t hijacked the term “gentlemen” in a fit of lewd irony.

But I observed these two gentleman and discovered them not to be leering so much as looking at the scantily clad, headless female forms, and I heard nothing lewd.

Instead, when one gentleman nudged the other with his elbow and pointed at the bare-bottomed beauty, he said, “She’s a bit of a minimalist, that one.”

They walked away, chuckling without a hint of coarseness, and I forgot about the pink ruffled coat.

Because all I could think about was that I’d never heard the word “minimalist” at Walmart.

I was on my way out of Walmart last week, pushing the buggy with sunglasses in hand, ready for the moment I stepped out into the glaring sunlight. The Burt Squirt, of course, made a grab for my shades. Not wanting to spoil his fun by snatching them away, but also unwilling to risk having my favorite sunglasses broken by the curious and ungentle exploring hands of my seven month-old, I popped them on his face instead. I didn’t have to feign laughter at the round-eyed expression of bewilderment visible through the big, tinted lenses perched on his chubby cheeks. He looked like a baby clown, and I told him so as I pushed him toward the exit.

Cute as he was wearing Mommy’s oversized sunglasses, however, my little boy was not the only person who captivated my attention in that moment. We were, after all, in Walmart. But this was not one of my typical encounters with Walmart clientele.

The husband and wife could barely walk, they were so old and frail, and they were holding hands. I got the feeling they weren’t holding hands because they needed to, but because they wanted to. All those years ago when they discovered they liked each other, then fell in love, they’d held hands; why wouldn’t they continue to do so after a lifetime together had given them reason to love and like each other even more?

Their smiles initially may have been expressions of happiness at being together, defying, for one more day, the physical limitations of age to perform such necessary tasks as grocery shopping, but I soon realized they were grinning at the Burt Squirt and me as we continued to giggle over the sunglasses. I stopped pushing the buggy as the lady released her husband’s hand and haltingly approached us.

“Look at that chubby little foot!”  She caught said chubby little foot in her gnarled hands and squeezed it, cooing and crooning to the Burt Squirt, and beaming up at me. “Oh, congratulations! Congratulations!”

“Congratulations!” her husband echoed, flashing a smile as gummy as the Burt Squirt’s, giving one of the chubby baby cheeks a pinch.

I thanked them, wondering how many of their own children, grandchildren, maybe even great-grandchildren they were thinking of with so much love in their eyes as they played with my baby boy.

“You look so happy,” the lady said with a sigh. “You both look so happy.” Then she clasped hands with her husband again and continued on into Walmart.

I wish I’d thought to tell her that she looked happy, too, and that I hope someday a young mother thinks the same thing about Mr. Burt and me when it’s all we can do to totter into Walmart, hand-in-hand, and squeeze chubby babies who remind us of the Burt Squirt.

Last Monday I had to make two trips to Walmart instead of one (by the way, I’m thinking of turning this into a Walmart blog, since all my posts seem to be about going there) because I somehow made it home without the lunch meat I specifically remember selecting from the refrigerated case and putting in my grocery cart.  No idea what happened to it; I checked my receipt and didn’t pay for turkey breast.  Possibly it stayed in my cart and rotted in the heat until some poor cart-collector found it.

This week, I was leaving Walmart when a voice called, “Ma’am!  Excuse me, Ma’am!”  I turned around to see my cashier chasing me down, waving what appeared to be a packet of seasoning.  “This is yours, Ma’am, you forgot it!”  I thanked her, thinking it was my fajita seasoning, and glad I wasn’t going to have a repeat of last week’s two Walmart trips.

Except that it wasn’t fajita seasoning.  It was buffalo wing seasoning.  Which the cashier insisted I keep, even though I insisted it wasn’t mine.  Maybe I paid for it; I didn’t care enough to check my receipt.

The point of the story:  last week I didn’t get all my groceries, and this week I got extra groceries.  It all evened out.

This wasn’t my only experience this week of situations evening each other out.

Also last Monday at Walmart, I was the victim of parking lot theft.  As in, someone whipped through a row, going the wrong direction, and stole the parking space into which I was just about to turn.  I was incensed!  How could someone be so rude — and to a lady with a baby in the car?!

Later that same shopping trip, I was having some difficulty unpacking my cart to pay for my groceries while holding a Burt Squirt who did not want to be in his carrier.  The man ahead of me in line noticed my struggle and then proceeded to unload my entire cart for me.  (Possibly this explains the lunch meat going AWOL.)

But see what happened?  Someone was rude to me, then someone was extremely kind to me.  It all evened out.

This of course reminds me of the Seinfeld episode “The Opposite” (quite possibly my favorite episode), in which George was down but goes up (by doing the opposite of his instincts), Elaine was up but goes down (thanks to Jujyfruits), and Kramer dubs Jerry “Even Steven” (because he loses a gig and then gets a gig).

That’s me!

(If only blogging about Walmart would reveal my comedic genius and lead to my becoming fabulously wealthy like Mr. Seinfeld.)

Recently I posted about how having a big baby attracts lots of comments from strangers.  (And by “strangers” I mean people who are strange. Mostly in Walmart.)

That wasn’t exactly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

In fact, simply having a baby, of any size, shape, or color, attracts lots of comments from strangers. Though I still mean people who are strange, and mostly in Walmart.

Take, for example, the woman who meandered over to me one afternoon as I attempted to simultaneously calm a screaming Burt Squirt and find a particular variety of Italian sausage I buy for lasagna (which, of course, Walmart had stopped selling, in typical Walmart fashion).

“Is it a widdle teensy baby?” she asked as she approached the cart.

“Not too teensy,” I answered, slightly embarrassed that my three month-old apparently sounded like he was having a newborn meltdown in the grocery store, and bracing myself to be judged for it.  “He’s about–”

Before I could tell her the Burt Squirt’s age, the woman, peering down into the cart, interrupted, “Oh, yes he’s a widdle teensy boy.”

I heaved a sigh of relief.  No judgment!

Then the woman’s eyes flicked up to me, the haze of baby admiration dissipating abruptly like a summer thunderstorm in Texas.  “He wants you to hold him, Mama.”

My defenses flew up as my mouth fell open.  First of all, how was I supposed to hold my fourteen-pound baby and push a shopping cart full of groceries at the same time?  Second, I was not that woman’s mama!

Alas, neither indignant response emitted from my lips. Quite the opposite, I shrugged, indicating my helplessness in the situation, muttered something about Walmart having stopped carrying the sausage I needed, and pushed cart and screaming child onward.

Though my shoulders hunched under the burden of my inadequacy, my feelings, apparently, weren’t evident enough for the woman.

She called after me, “Where is his paci?”

Pride goeth before the fall — or before the stumble over the grocery cart, in this case.  For, you see, up until then, I’d ridiculously worn it as a badge of pride that my baby didn’t like pacifiers.  He didn’t need them. He could soothe himself without that crutch, and I would never have to go to the trouble of breaking the paci habit. And, best of all, no photos of his cute mouth hidden by a paci.

In that moment, I realized that was a load of utter crap and wished to God my baby was a constant pacifier sucker. That I could whip one out, pop it in, quiet the baby and, most importantly, shut. that. woman. up.

Or, better yet, he’d have had a paci to start with and I never would have had my mothering abilities called into question in the first place.

Things being what they were, I was close to tears as I turned and said, “He won’t take a paci at all.  He hates them.”

Even as I said the words, my brain told me I didn’t owe that busybody an explanation, least of all an apology, for my child’s preferences.  In my head, I knew that. But there’s nothing like unsolicited advice from a strange person in Walmart to break a new mommy’s heart.

Eventually I did resort to taking the Burt Squirt out of his carseat.  In Mama’s arms, his crying instantly stopped. It should have been sweet relief, but instead it was only so much salt in my wounds. Rubbed in deeper when, rounding the corner of the frozen foods aisle, a met the woman again, as she meandered through the bakery, munching on a sticky bun.

“See?” she said around a bite, “I told you he just needed you, Mama.”

As I gritted my teeth, she proceeded to explain to me how I could spare myself future hissy fits by foregoing the carseat and propping him up in the main baby seat with pillows.

Rather than walk away, or at the very least, point out how ridiculous it would be for me to drag a bunch of pillows grocery shopping, on top of the kid and all his personal effects, I listened politely, and even said, with such a show of cheerfulness that I deserve an Academy Award, “He’s eying your pastry.”

Any normal person would know I wasn’t dropping a subtle hint with that comment. But we’re not talking about normal people, we’re talking about strange people at Walmart.

“Would he eat some?” she asked, and broke off a bite-sized portion of her sticky bun.

I gawped at her, and at her sticky bun.

“Thank you,” I managed to sputter after a moment. “But he’s exclusively breastfed. Also, he doesn’t have any teeth.”

I adjusted the Burt Squirt on my hip, wheeled the cart around with my free hand, and proceeded to the checkout, my confidence in my mothering abilities restored.