Yesterday, I lived the dream: a day where I wasn’t the primary grandparent. I wasn’t exactly “off the clock,” but I wasn’t fully “on” either. After attempting a morning hug from my grandchild—who is currently in a “what can I destroy next?” phase—I set out on my mission.

My goal was simple: complete the tasks that are nearly impossible when you’re tethered to a baby who demands naps in a stationary crib rather than a moving car seat. The list was short: test the hot tub water and grab a few groceries.

The Schedule vs. The Social

I had a tight window. The pool store didn’t open until 10:00, and I had to be back by 11:30 so “The Substitute” (Grandma) could get to the rec center to swim her laps.

I walked into the pool store feeling confident. I’d recently drained and refilled the tub, so I expected the chemicals to be perfectly in range. With my ego intact, I turned my attention to the attendant. She looked familiar, but the math wasn’t mathing.

“Did you color your hair recently?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, “I’m doing some revamping.”
“Aha,” I said, “You looked familiar, but it wasn’t quite fitting together. Good luck with the revamp!”

One interaction down. Quota started.

The Walmart Odyssey

Next stop: Walmart. My grocery list was a digital patchwork cobbled together over several days of “nap-rule” captivity. I wandered the aisles like a tourist, visiting the back, the front, then the middle, taking several unintentional detours along the way.

When it came time to check out, the self-checkout lanes were packed. I opted for an “old-fashioned” lane—the kind where a human being is responsible for knowing the produce codes so I don’t have to.

Since it’s March in Oklahoma, conversation naturally turned to the local religion: Tornado Season. We talked about how our weathermen are a bit… intense. They love to preempt every TV show to tell you, “If you are in the path, for gosh sakes, get in your safe place!”

The cashier weighed in with the classic Okie philosophy: “Don’t worry about the weather until you need to worry about the weather. The drama is for the ratings.”

The Technical Difficulty

Then came the payment. I use a Venmo debit card that has developed a stubborn personality. It refuses to function unless I physically bend the card and lean it into the sensor at a precise angle. It’s a ritual, not a transaction. On the second attempt, the sensor accepted my sacrifice, and I was cleared for exit.

The cashier had bagged my items with a very specific logic: if I had two of something, they shared a bag. Everything else got its own solo apartment. As I looked at the sea of plastic in my cart, I thought, Yep, that’s a lot of groceries.

I headed for the door, receipt held out like a peace offering for the “Klepto-Gestapo” greeters. The coast was clear. I sailed out.

The Parking Lot Pursuit

I was halfway across the asphalt, trying to remember which row I’d parked in, when I heard yelling behind me. I ignored it at first—until I was “assaulted” by a Walmart employee providing their “famous” parking lot delivery service. (Translation: If you leave half your stuff at the register and we catch you before you hit the main road, we might try to bring it to you.)

I sheepishly thanked him while he tried to catch his breath.

The Verdict

I know what you’re thinking: I need to do a better job of keeping track of my groceries. To do that, I’d have to stop having so many conversations. I’d have to stop asking about hair color or debating weather ratings.

But do I actually want that? Probably not.

I can live without the occasional bag of discounted garlic bread or the raspberries for my yogurt. But I can’t live without the connection. I’ll be back to “talking” to the baby shortly, and since she mostly just wants to destroy things, I had to get my talking quota out while I could.