Grocery Day

Days with No Words; Episode 1

When I first started these days, I never thought it would inspire my first picture book. I never knew they would launch me to an instant #1 NYT bestseller. I just wanted to connect better with my son and see if he could see that I was trying in a world that wasn’t helping us much. They didn’t start out being called Days with No Words. For us, these were No Talk Days, and honestly, we still call them this. I didn’t have a lot I could pack into a 600 count pic book. So, I wanted to share more of these days, some lessons I learned along the way, and some tips to share. This is a part of my Substack reserved for paid subscribers and what I raise through this newsletter has and will always go towards Aidan’s communication journey. Thank you for being here. Than you for supporting me in this way. I love you all. I adore you all.

Read through to the end for some extra words regarding this day, some additional words for parents/caregivers, and advocacy kibble.

Let’s get into this day, shall we?

GROCERY DAY

As told by Mama. 

The sun isn’t out

but we are. 

I am stumbling around an almost empty, dimly lit parking lot of the grocery store trying to find one Caroline Cart* that will hold both my soon-to-be 18-year-old and our food. I cannot push a wheelchair and hold groceries. I have not accessed that part of my Mama Powers. And Aidan isn’t to be trusted with bags of food within open palms and an open, eager mouth. 

Been there…

bought lots of partially opened vanilla sugar wafers that day…

And just as I was about to give up on ever finding one of those elusive buggies, I find one, tucked on the side of the store behind a thick bush as if someone were trying to hide it there.

Also, 

been there. 

Stores don’t come with enough of these. And most don’t come with any (Advocacy Kibble*)

I look around a few times as if I am about to commit a crime by taking this buggy and an even worse offense by daring to use it. 

Surely the person who hid it here will come back for it. 

The guilt is fleeting and honestly, probably completely unnecessary, but I give the wind a soft “sorry” and kinda hope it carries the message. 

Then I quickly make my way across this dark lot to my car to get my son, who practically flies from the car into the buggy. 

I secure him within the straps, grab my iPad, and type out…