Aisle Sit This One Out

Remember the excitement of knowing, upon waking up on a beautiful morning during summer break, that you were going to go to an amusement park that day? The butterflies in your stomach as you thought about trying that rollercoaster, now that you were tall enough to ride? The anticipation felt in every muscle as you rode the tram from the far-away parking lot to the front gate? The way you and your sibling or best friend burst into the park, like horses responding to the gun, ready to sprint to every treasured thing the park had to offer? Ahhhh…the wonder of it all…

Every trip to an amusement park with Zach seemed to fill him with that same sense of glee. But, since he was a little boy, every trip to a grocery store fills Zach with the same exuberance! His enthusiasm for Six Flags or Disneyland almost pales in comparison to the jubilation he demonstrates in the parking lot of a grocery store. From the moment we grab our “tram” and enter the sliding doors, Zach is skipping and vocalizing delight. He pauses as you enter the “park” filled with its treasures of salty gluten free pretzels, crunchy corn tortillas, strips of marbled bacon, cartons of creamy sorbet, and glass jars packed with sour dill pickles. He takes in the sights, the colors, the signs; he lets the coolness of the air greet his face; and he inhales deeply as if he were atop the Matterhorn taking it all in.  

Photo Credit: S. Levine

When he was small, I’d place him in the cart’s seat, where he’d stretch out his chubby arms and “rev the motorcycle” as we called it.  It was an outward display of internal excitement. His little legs would kick and flick as we perused the aisles. As he grew and the cart seat no longer worked, he’d sometimes sit within the cart, cross-legged among the meat, the fruit, the crackers…maybe that immersive experience served to deepen his love for all-things-grocery!

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But the game-changer came when he was tall enough to “ride.”  Tall enough to handle the cart by himself. Strong enough to manage the turns and stops and go’s, the ups and downs of each long aisle as we snaked through the store. Even the most lopsided and clumsy carts were no deterrent for him; a wobbly wheel only made him more determined to push on.

Somewhere around age 15, 16, something backfired. Our beloved grocery stores became a funhouse – not in the sense of fun but in the sense of everything becoming off-balance. A trip for groceries turned into a Tower of Terror. Sensory-wise, I think it had become too overwhelming. His senses were trying to coordinate the input, and it was all too much. Instead of a Peter Pan flying boat ride, going to the market morphed into a spinning, dizzying teacup ride.

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Gone were the days of mother and son cooperation; I’d ask him to please put a package of cookies in the cart and he’d gladly oblige. With senses on overload, he’d respond to my request for two soup cans by emptying the shelf of all soup cans. Not wanting to purchase 35 cans of soup, I’d have to put them all back, which led to Zach panicking as he tried to snatch them from my grasp and return them to the cart. It was like that throughout the entire store – the frozen food section being the attraction where the floor dropped out from under us.

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One of Zach’s favorite foods is French fries. He does not love them all, however. Only select fries measure up. But Alexia Foods Yukon Gold French Fries in the frozen food section were, indeed, gold. We’d always buy two bags. But when adolescence collided with autism, chaos ensued. Especially in the frozen food aisle.

If the store had stocked 12 bags of yukon gold, 12 bags were snatched with the speed and precision of a trapeze artist catching their mate. Trouble was, we didn’t want to buy 12 bags and had no room for them once home. So, we’d try to return them but keep two. The teenage Zach was not having it. And on “good days,” just when we thought we had it conquered and could move on, all 98 lean pounds of boy would sprint back and pull the other ten bags off the shelf. 

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There were times that store employees sweeping the floor would stop and stare at us. Times when a store manager would traipse over all casual-like and ask if we were “finding everything okay.” I knew what the question meant. The time that the entire bin of sweet potatoes released its inventory to the floor of the produce department, we had store management and store employees encircling us like we were the center attraction at Cirque du Soleil.  

It grew almost unmanageable. I’d return home feeling like I spent the day in a Bumper Car arena. We had to stop taking Zach to the grocery store. It broke my heart. He’d see me come home with groceries and look so disappointed. I started going on furtive trips to the market, hoping he would not witness my car full of bags and a kitchen full of goodies…but, Mr. Hawk Eye would know the pantry was different. He’d open the fridge and see the newly-packed shelves. He’d pull open the freezer door and empty the contents until he found the fries. Then, he wanted them baked on the spot. If you didn’t meet that demand, you had to be prepared for some type of combat.

I longed for the days I could shop with my grocery buddy. I wanted him there. Wanted to see his smiling face and share the joy that perfectly lined-up food brought to his heart. When he was 17, 18, we had a behaviorist come help us. It just wasn’t manageable any which way we tried to acquire food and bring it home. So, several days a week, after school, we planned trips to the local market with our Registered Behavior Technician (RBT). We had a customized strategy.

I contacted the store manager to alert him to our plan. I needed transparency – mostly to quell my fear that the police would show up after an avalanche of yams, yellow peppers, and Braeburn apples knocked over shoppers like bowling pins.  The manager was hesitant but said he’d like to meet the behaviorist to “discuss” things.

Discuss we did, and the plan went forward. I could see Zach’s underlying excitement…getting to food shop several days a week now! But I also saw the sensory overload and the desire to grab every bag of Lays or every package of hot dogs and fill the cart to maximum load. After the RBT and I were sufficiently scratched up and nearly black-eyed, we reviewed the plan and pivoted.

Armed with grocery store themed PEC® cards on a Velcro® board, and a pre-store coaching session which included a Social Story™ we ventured back to the market. We also wore long sleeves.

Our visits would be about successfully looking for and adding to the cart only five or seven items and nothing more. We were making things predictable and limited. Brief and satisfying. Yes, there was (unfortunately) some physical back-and-forth that had to happen in order to help Zach relearn some parameters. Sometimes there’d be a scene in the frozen food section because fries remained the top-ticket item. 

Once, in the midst of a quarterback-like maneuver to grab 10 more bags of “gold,” the behaviorist and Zach were kind of tackling each other. Bags were falling from the shelves like an overly generous vending machine. And around the corner came our pastor and his wife. What else can one do but smile, wave, and say hello! For me, it was just a typical day at the market.

Finding the extensive preparation to buy groceries rather burdensome, I tended to avoid shopping as much as I could. Couldn’t we just go to Applebee’s every day? After all, Zach loved their fries. And the steak was pretty good. People eat steak for breakfast and dinner. 

When our program with the behaviorist was over, I kept up with the Social Story™ and made lists to bring along to keep Zach focused. Inevitably, I’d end up needing something I did not include on the list, and I’d face the choice of having to cart it with Zach’s disapproval, or hiding it until we reached the checkout. Once, I tucked dishwashing liquid in the waistband of my pants until we checked out.

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Shopping for food was a Coney Island wooden rollercoaster ride every time we went. And I reached a point where I had to get off. We didn’t take Zach into a market for years. And then covid lockdowns and restrictions gave us even more reason not to go out for groceries.

Years literally passed. And then one day we went into a vitamin store. It was more like a health food market, but I didn’t know that until we were inside.

Once inside, Zach instantly spotted the food. Beautiful shelves of colorful and symmetrical boxes and cans. Produce bins with pyramids of organic fruit and vegetable. Paper bags in nice little recepticles for collecting your peaches and plums. He looked euphoric.

I was not about to turn around and flee. I told myself I would manage whatever happened. And what happened was great. I recited the usual expectations, but I had no PECs® and no list. No Velcro® and no other adult with me. With sweaty palms, I began the serpentine walk through the queue of the store. Butterflies in my stomach. Eyes scanning for the treasures we needed. Hoping they didn’t have French fries.

I walked slowly, methodically. I narrated for Zach. I told him what we were selecting as we selected it, and why. I limited everything to a quantity of one. I whispered words of gratitude for a mostly empty store, nice lighting, calm music. It didn’t feel like the air-conditioning was set to 32º, and no one came to ask if we were finding everything okay. I allowed my shoulders to return to their normal position.

Zach sashayed around that market and complied with everything. There was a momentary tug at the lemons and limes (to this day, citrus seems to attract his attention like nothing else). But we worked through it. Somehow, the phrase we don’t need that today appeased his compulsion. And it remains effective.

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Going to the store at less-crowded times proved helpful. Although I could not do anything about the temperature, the fluorescent lights, the often-loud music, or the odors emanating from the bakery, meat counter, juice bar, seafood section, or detergent aisle, Zach somehow got to the point where perhaps these assaults on his sensory system weren’t so assaultive anymore. 

I had my shopping buddy back. He even took trips with his dad from time to time to pick up a few things, and with unbridled enthusiasm he’d select a cart and steer around the store with dad, too. (I suspect that once in a while, there was some riding of the cart going on, but I can’t be sure).

Just the other day, on a quick trip to Trader Joe’s, I got to thinking about the very long journey we’ve had with grocery stores. When things are better, one tends to not think much about the long and winding road that came before. The tears, the pleas, the scratched arms, the stares from onlookers. I reflected back on the Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride it used to be for us. And I was filled with gratitude for where it is now.

As we checked out of Trader Joe’s, I saw Zach glance over his shoulder at the lemons piled up in a wooden display box. I wondered if he’d suddenly be overcome with the urge to rescue to those lemons from their confinement and take them home. But he stared a moment and turned back around to help the person bagging our items. He loves to bag everything, and when we get home, he enjoys putting everything away (in the proper places, of course).

The man handed Zach a very full bag.  A very heavy bag. Zach took it by the handles, and suddenly, the beige straps ripped, dumping groceries all over the floor. A carton of strawberries opened and out scampered 25 just-ripe strawberries. A package of red raspberries overturned, and they rolled out and dispersed like a raspberry firework. Chips crashed. Ground beef hit the ground. Leafy balls of Brussels sought protection beneath the checkout stand. A bottle of sparkling water created a mini flume ride on the tile.

Zach stood there dazed. People turned around and stared. The cashier muttered Ohhhh nooooo. The person bagging froze up. And I felt all our hard work spinning out of control. My brain was bouncing anxious thoughts around like a pinball machine. Would Zach feel embarrassed? At fault? Would the mess cause him to scream? Would this spark some type of aversion to the grocery store? How were we gonna go back and get replacement items for the things that spilled…this could trigger a setback like no other setback.

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But just like those Bounty commercials where the slow-motioned people get to the paper towel in the nick of time before disaster strikes, so too did the players bounce into action.

I took Zach’s hands and said Oooops! Oh well! The bag broke. Nobody’s fault! The bagger went to get our replacement items. People gently stepped out of the way. And my Zach crouched down – calm, cool, collected – and picked up every loose piece of food and open container and handed them to the cashier who uttered a thank you each time a new handful was doled over. (I suspect a sly Brussels sprout or two escaped collection.)

Our backwards-pitched chair was turned right-side up (think Disney’s Haunted Mansion). With three bags instead of two, Zach and I walked to the car. He wasn’t flustered. Wasn’t upset. Wasn’t stressed. He closed the trunk, swiped a dry leaf off the bumper, and hopped to the back door. I looked at him through the rearview mirror as he buckled his seatbelt for the ride home. I knew he was gearing up for unloading those bags and allocating the goods to their proper places in the pantry.

“I’m proud of you, bud,” I said. “I love taking you with me to get groceries. You are the best helper.”

A subtle smile spread to his cheeks as he nodded yes.  

I breathed a sigh of relief on the way home. I felt like Mary Poppins floating happily on her lavender-maned horse, off the merry-go-round and into vividly green fields.