Messy Minded Momma

In 2020, my husband and I made the hard decision to move because the cost of living in Toronto was climbing faster than our paychecks. We now live three hours west of our families on a good day with no traffic. We are raising our son without the village. Most family visits happen around the holidays, long weekends, or when we can all coordinate calendars like a tactical military operation.

This past weekend in Ontario, we celebrated Family Day. My parents drove down Friday after work and stayed the weekend at our house. My dad helped my husband frame our unfinished basement. My mom slipped naturally into helping me clean, fold laundry, and cook. Afternoons were filled with board games and cards, the Winter Olympics playing in the background while we cheered every Canadian medal like it was personal. (Canada has brought home a total of 11 medals so far!)

At one point, I watched my dad play with my four-year-old the same way he used to play with me. Same exaggerated voices. Same teasing and rough-housing. Same laughter. It felt like I was watching my childhood unfold again in real time. It was the kind of weekend that reminds you why family matters. Even something as simple as grocery shopping felt warmer together.

Now here is my confession. I hate grocery shopping.

The crowds. The oversized carts. The rising food prices. The rearranged aisles that make you question whether you hallucinated the cereal section last week. The bright lights and beeping scanners. The conveyor belt moving faster than my hands can bag. It feels less like errands and more like wandering through a corn maze under interrogation lighting designed by someone who hates cereal buyers. It is a full sensory experience that I never volunteer for. And price matching? I spiral before even opening the Flipp app.

My mother cannot relate.

She insists it is simple. She says I need to be more financially aware. She reminds me that saving money is important. I respond by admitting my social anxiety once prevented me from asking a gas station cashier to remove an unlimited car wash package I did not want.

So she tells me she will do it. All I have to do is show up and pay.

When I tell you this woman treats price matching like an Olympic sport, I am not exaggerating. She moves through the aisles with intention. Checks the app and circles the deals. Pulls items from my list, placing potential price match contenders at the front of the cart like they are awaiting inspection. It is tactical.

Then comes the cashier selection process. My mother studies the lanes like a coach scouting referee. She evaluates who looks like they might inspect the exact ounce of granola bar versus who looks open to distraction. Once she has chosen her cashier, we line up.

Items are placed strategically on the belt. Regular items first and price match items saved for the end. She begins to charm the cashier. “Hi Jane, how is your day going?”

And suddenly Jane is smiling. Talking. Scanning. Laughing. Meanwhile I step aside to bag groceries and watch this masterclass unfold. Somewhere between small talk and scanning codes, details blur. The Made Good granola bites ring through at sale price instead of the bars. No alarms. No suspicion. Just savings.

By the end of it, my mother has saved me almost one hundred dollars.

Gold medal. National anthem. Victory lap through aisle seven.

But here is what really struck me.

It was not just about the money. It was about watching someone do something confidently that makes me anxious. It was about realizing we all bring different strengths to the table. I dread the process. She thrives in it. I avoid confrontation. She leans into it with a smile.

Maybe that is what having a village looks like. Not constant support or daily help. But moments where someone steps in with their skill set and carries the load for a while.

She wins gold in price matching.

I win silver in avoidance.

And together, we walked out of that store feeling like champions.