The Great Carlinville Baby Mix‑Up
There isn’t a single day that goes by that I don’t think about my mom. I was spoiled by our routine—daily calls, daily check‑ins, daily proof that neither of us had anything better to do than talk to each other. I’d fill her in on whatever Michael and I were up to, and she’d update me on her life, which mostly revolved around The Bold and the Beautiful, church, playing cards with friends, the weather, and her ongoing confusion about why her retirement community insisted on serving so much pre‑prepared food.
This baffled her deeply. And honestly, it should have. My mom was an excellent from‑scratch cook—someone who could taste the difference between a lovingly baked lasagna and a suspiciously beige frozen rectangle from Sysco. She took shortcuts as a personal insult.
The other day, I found myself telling friends one of my all‑time favorite Mom stories—one that captures her perfectly and still makes me laugh. It happened during one of her many trips to the grocery store, when she was gathering supplies for a proper Sunday family dinner. Carl’s IGA was her go‑to. Walmart, in her mind, was a looming threat to the soul of Carlinville, Illinois. And, to her credit, she wasn’t wrong.
On this particular trip, she stopped at the meat counter for freshly ground beef. She waited while the butcher wrapped it, placed it in her cart, and continued shopping—probably thinking about whether she had enough onions or if she needed to grab another can of mushroom soup “just in case.”
And then it happened.
From the front of the store came a scream that could stop a clock: “CALL THE POLICE! SOMEONE HAS STOLEN MY BABY!”
Mom said it was blood‑curdling—the kind of scream that makes your heart skip, your stomach drop, and your brain immediately start rehearsing your alibi. This was Carlinville. Babies did not get stolen in Carlinville. Pies got stolen. Recipes got stolen. Occasionally a lawn ornament. But not babies.
Then—wait for it—she looked down.
There, sitting calmly in her shopping cart, was a baby.
She had grabbed the wrong cart when she left the meat counter.
Without hesitation, she shouted, “The baby is over here!” which, in hindsight, is not the soothing, reassuring sentence she imagined it to be.
The manager and the frantic mother came running. The woman, shaking and in tears, tore into my mom and insisted she should be arrested. My mom, mortified, tried to explain that it was an honest mistake. She hadn’t even looked at the cart—she was just focused on dinner and probably mentally rearranging the seating chart for the table.
The manager, a longtime family friend, stepped in and tried to calm the situation. He reassured the woman that my mom was a good Christian lady who would never steal a baby. (Apparently that’s the official legal defense in rural Illinois.)
Mom called me the moment she got home. I laughed so hard I nearly passed out. She did not find it funny. Not even a little. For years afterward, whenever I started telling the story to friends, she’d sigh and say, “Oh, Robert… can’t we just put that behind us?”
Absolutely not. It was too good.
I’m sure she’s frowning down at me from heaven right now as I prepare to post this. Mom, I miss you. I love you. And please—watch your shopping cart as you navigate Walmart up there. I’m sure they’ve run all the other stores out of business in heaven, too.
And here’s the thing: every time I tell this story, I’m reminded that life is full of these messy, human moments—moments where panic, misunderstanding, and good intentions collide. Empathy doesn’t always arrive on time. Sometimes it shows up late, after the yelling, after the embarrassment, after the laughter finally breaks through.
That’s empathy on the rocks: a little shaken, a little imperfect, served with a twist of humility and a generous pour of love. It’s the reminder that we’re all just doing our best, pushing our carts through the aisles of life, hoping we’ve grabbed the right one.