The Aisle of Death

The first months I spent with my baby daughter were the happiest of my life, even living in the Great White North.

Even as a newborn, even slouched unbecomingly in her bouncy chair, she was always serene, composed, and busy taking in this big new world. I talked to her incessantly, from morning until night, and she gummed her enormous brown rubber pacifier and weighed the merit of my ramblings.

This was our routine. My husband left for work early each morning and Sara and I would promptly sleep in. She loved to sleep as much as I did! We would wake up a couple of hours later, in a very leisurely manner, and then lounge around and “talk.” 

I did all the talking, of course (she was four months old), but I could see by her expression that she agreed with me wholeheartedly. The fact that she was physically unable to respond was only a temporary inconvenience, and we both knew it.

For entertainment, she would reach out and catch one of my eyelashes between two of her tiny fingers and stroke it gently. I would lie there and marvel that she wasn’t poking my eye out.

Only once was our routine marred when I fell sleep again and Sara didn’t. I was jolted awake by the sound of her wild shrieking, which was out of the ordinary to say the least. Somehow she had shimmied her way to the edge of the bed and had fallen over the side (maybe on her head?)!

I was both distraught and fascinated because I didn’t know she could shimmy.

Luckily, the bed sat fairly low to the ground and she didn’t have far to fall. I don’t think she was hurt, although to this day she is not good at math.

Anyway, after we finally rose and ate breakfast, we settled down to watch a series of cooking shows.

After all, one of us was going to have to learn to cook.

We watched Biba’s Italian Kitchen, Yan Can Cook, and New Southern Cooking (although we weren’t familiar with old Southern cooking so could not effectively compare). We sat side by side on the carpet, propped up against the couch, and marveled at the culinary feats presented to us so artfully. 

We watched an Amish cooking show (!) during which the woman made dainty little sandwiches filled with tuna, cream cheese, and walnuts! Sara and I gaped at each other, incredulous—yum!

Then after watching two or three or six of these programs, we would choose a recipe that looked fairly tasty—and one we could realistically prepare without the aid of a professional. We wrote down the ingredients and started the process of getting bathed and dressed.

We would trek to the grocery store and get what we needed.

Finally (around noon!), I’d stuff my baby into her snowsuit, wedge her securely in her stroller, cover her with crocheted baby blankets, and push her to the grocery store (snow, rain, or sun—mostly snow). 

One morning, we left the apartment feeling ambitious and energized. I pushed her in the stroller toward the sidewalk only to discover that it had not been shoveled and was covered with dingy, slushy snow! 

Fuming and freezing, I discussed with Sara whether we should turn back, but she convinced me that we couldn’t let a slushy sidewalk deter us (easy for her to say—being a lump of padding with eyes).

By the time we reached the grocery store parking lot, which was blessedly clear, I was light headed from the physical exertion. Sara took it all in stride, as usual, and didn’t look a bit surprised that we had reached our destination.

Unfortunately, her satisfaction was short lived.

I pushed the stroller down the first aisle, glancing this way and that, and checking my list (water chestnuts, fresh ginger, rice noodles). I turned down the next aisle, made it half way down the aisle, and then—the horror! 

Before I fully realized what was happening, large clunky boxes of ketchup toppled off of a high shelf and landed on my baby! 

I gasped and then shrieked loudly! 

A stock person (a kid in his teens) turned his head to reveal the most bored expression I have ever seen on a human face. Frantic, I pushed the boxes off of my baby to find her glaring at me in astonishment.

Somehow, she remained composed in the face of my total panic. It would have been undignified to fall apart and, after all, she was not prone to having hysterical fits.

Was she injured? Was she spared because she was buried under so much padding?

If it had been one of the two summer days in Alberta, would she have been seriously harmed—or worse? 

I examined her as well as I could and then rushed to the register to tell the checkout lady what happened. 

“Oh, wow. Sorry.” She gave a slight grimace and checked her watch—I guess her break was overdue.

Anxious and shaken, I pushed the stroller back home on the same slush-covered sidewalk. Once back in the apartment, I shrugged out of my coat and realized I was drenched in an icy sweat. 

I pulled Sara out of her cocoon, assured myself that she was her same healthy and exuberant self, and forced myself to calm down. 

Whatever we'd planned to make for supper was forgotten. She and I lay on the couch and listened to country music until my heart rate slowed to its normal pace.

She showed no ill effects from the experience, so I tried to pull myself together for both our sakes. The phrase “death by ketchup” kept rolling through my mind, but I tried to shake it off.

My baby would survive to watch another cooking show. We both would.

She reached over and gently grasped one of my eyelashes.

I asked her if she thought we should order a pizza.