I took Rosie with me to the grocery store yesterday, partly to give L and Noah a little time together to concoct their race car for the Cub Scout shindig-thing that’s happening Friday night, and partly because, well, I … like to take her with me to the grocery store. Riddle me that, last year self!
But it’s true—she can turn a humdrum chore like the weekly food run into something entertaining, with grown men smiling and waving as we pass and little old ladies just about lifting her out of the buggy to take her home in their boat-sized Lincoln Continentals. She sat face to face with me as we shopped, swinging her legs and making up songs with lyrics like “I like everybody on the inside and I like everybody on the outside …” and shouting out “Mama! THAT GIRL HAS BANANAS JUST LIKE US!” as we rolled past cart after cart in the crowded aisles. Halfway through the store, somewhere around the salad dressings, she asked to get down and I obliged, making the trip stretch out several minutes more, but hey—it takes extra time to traverse a Kroger when you’ve got dancing ruby red-slippered feet.
At the checkout, the Middle Eastern cashier had the stickers out before Rosie even reached the bagging area. “How old is she?” the woman asked. “She’s three,” I answered, as Rosie carefully applied her sticky spoils straight across her mouth with careful reverence. “Ah yes,” the woman said with a knowing smile as she handed me my receipt. “Three years old and full of the world.”
Which, of course, is precisely what she is.
On the way home we trailed our waving fingers out the open windows, while our heads bopped in time with the beat of the music.