I squat to the bottom shelf for the last tub of formula. Food Nation normally restocks better than this. Despite the unchanging floor from the 80s, Mr. Terrance maintains a good store. I pray for the staff. Someone will likely hear several things about this at the end of shift. Still, Tacoma has her formula, and that’s all that matters.

            Lydia’s wide, blue eyes meet mine as I rise from the floor. I flip the tub into the cart. her eyes get wider still. They snap to Tacoma who sits in the buggy with her Ellie, a stuffed elephant from the zoo. Lydia exhales after the no-response from Tacoma. A grin sneaks onto my lips.

            For tonight, Tacoma proves a trooper. The bumps and squeaks from the cart provide more entertainment than annoyance. And, the other customers are an ever-changing source for distraction.

            Lydia puts a check next to the formula on the list. She scans the remainder with her black eyebrows nearly touching each other. She says, “I can’t believe that we’ve only got five items left.” After a congratulations to Tacoma, Lydia tells me, “Alright, Clyde, we’ll need to get some bread on the next aisle. Then, only dairy and beer are left.” Lydia runs her multicolored nails through her hair. Supposedly, her salon customers like seeing all the options.

            The wheels of the buggy squeal with the turn onto the bread aisle, like a victory burn-out at Talladega. That’s the last straw. Tacoma erupts as if her eardrums just burst. Every shopper turns toward our cart. Surely, the worst parents in the world did something to cause such wailing.

            Lydia ditches the buggy for a sprint up the bread aisle. My head flits between the sprinter and the wailer. I am behind the cart in the next instant.

My finger gains little attention from Tacoma, so I ignore the bottle in the diaper bag. She wiggles in my arms for a diaper check. That’s not our problem either. All I replace Tacoma in the cart before following Lydia’s path. Tacoma persists in her announcement of displeasure up the aisle.

            I reach Lydia in front of our usual bread. However, Lydia is empty handed. After an inhale, I ask, “Don’t we usually get the whole wheat with honey?”

            Lydia’s shoulders rise to her ears. She agrees and says, “But, they have a new rye bread. Would you like to try that one?”

            I look away from dancing Ellie in front of the squalling Tacoma. My arms flash from my sides with palms up. I say, “Tonight, I don’t care. Let’s just get the usual, and we’ll try the rye next time, if we’re in the mood.”

            Lydia jolts around to me, saying: “But, Clyde, I have a great recipe for that stew meat that’d go great with rye bread.”

            I point one hand at our bawling daughter and say, “Great, then get the rye.”

            Lydia huffs before a turn back to the bread display. Her hands imitate a juggle of the two options. Tacoma finds a new decibel level. Now, the other customers stop instead of just staring. Lydia snatches the rye loaf and tosses it toward the buggy in the same motion. She jabs a line through “bread” on the list. She vanishes toward the next aisle with an announcement of “dairy aisle” over her shoulder.

            I push the cart with one hand and continue Ellie’s dance with the other. Tacoma turns her howls to the rusted fluorescent lights. I sag over the buggy as we round the endcap into the dairy aisle.

            Lydia only made it as far as the cheeses. She holds two bags on either side of two more. I push the buggy behind her while Tacoma coughs. After two normal breaths, she renews her screams with even greater volume. Lydia flinches over the cheeses.

She turns her face to me. Tears begin to leak down her face. She whispers, “If I’m going to make the stew, I’ll need more cheese, but I just can’t think, Clyde.”

            I put an arm around her waist and point to the bags already in her hands. One nod precedes the bags flopping into the buggy. Lydia drags Ellie from the buggy seat, and Ellie slides gently across Tacoma’s cheeks.

            Tacoma’s face disappears into the stuffed animal with a laugh. Lydia dashes Ellie around Tacoma’s grasping hands. More laughter replaces the cries. Ellie lands successfully in Tacoma’s grasp before Tacoma flips the toy into the floor. The seat in the buggy catches the list from Lydia’s squat to the floor.

            Before Tacoma squeals again, I say, “Lydia, stay here.” I grab the list. A check mark flashes next to “cheese” on my way to the eggs. Our brand of eggs got moved to the middle shelf. No check mark appears for the eggs. I’m in motion. I can’t find a way to add the mark.

            Milk lies at the aisle’s far end. My ears detect no new outburst. I have to keep moving. Milk is in my freehand before any slow-down. I spin back toward my family.

            An older couple stops at our buggy. Lydia talks with them before she points to a cheese, and Tacoma nearly leans out of the buggy. She hands the couple their cheese with a two-tooth smile.

            My steps slow with the scene in front of me. Lydia directs Tacoma toward a young man’s order, and the young man thanks them. The milk lands in the buggy while the eggs find a safer home. I congratulate Lydia on her success.

            Lydia holds a hand toward Tacoma and says, “I blame her. A woman came up just after you left. She pointed to a bag with an ‘excuse me.’ Tacoma looked at the cheeses and gave the woman the exact one.” After one long inhale, Lydia concludes, “We’ve been helping folks ever since.”

“That’s some nice work,” I say with a pat on Tacoma’s back. I continue, “Well, I got the milk and eggs.”

            Lydia plants Ellie in Tacoma’s lap before a death-grip on the buggy. The cart turns slowly toward the end of the aisle. Lydia rolls it past the end-cap without a single creak. 

            I place a hand on both my girls. “Well, looks to me like there’s only one more stop,” I say. “Would you like me to run over there real quick?”

            “Absolutely not,” Lydia says. “If I let that happen, I’ll get stuck with Guiness or something. We’ll go together.”