SOUTHWORDS

My 76-year-old mother, recovering from a hip replacement, steered her cart toward a cashier at Walmart. A line of five carts snaked ahead of us, overflowing with groceries and restless toddlers. This could take an hour. No, I decided. It was time.

I gently took command of the cart and circled back to the spacious and orderly self-checkout section. Here patrons circulated freely, checked out quickly and marched out the door, smiling into the sunshine. Mom deserved this. “Let’s use the self-checkout.”

“No,” she said, her navy eyes widening with resolve, reminding me of the theory that all blue-eyed people shared one common ancestor, undoubtedly a stubborn soul who insisted on making her spears solely from the gingko tree.

I knew she was scared. Of the scanning and the codes. Of setting off some alarm that brought managers. I understood.

“This is exactly how I felt before I jumped off the high dive,” I reminded her. In her prime, Mom had been an expert swimmer, famous for her beautiful swan dives while I preferred to splash around in the kiddie section. “But you coached me through it. Remember?” At just 8 years old, I held my nose, dutifully stepped off the board, and much to my relief, bobbed right back up and doggie-paddled to her welcoming arms. That’s why I knew she could survive the self-checkout. I would be there for her. Still, she glared at me.

I sighed, moved by the gravitas of this moment. There comes a time in the life of every adult child when you realize that you must become the parent of your own parent. Today was the day I would take the bull by the horns. Or, in this case, the heifer by the hair.

“It’s so easy,” I said, rolling over to an empty register. “And there are friendly people here to help.” Sandra, one of my favorite clerks, chit-chatted with an elderly man while they weighed his avocados, the atmosphere lightened by laughter.

“OK,” Mom grumbled, realizing it was too late to protest.

“Watch this,” I said, grabbing a tub of potato soup and rolling it over the screen. A reassuring ping confirmed a successful scan. “Your turn.”

But when she tried the same thing with a box of coffee pods, nothing happened. “Here,” I said, grabbing the box and bouncing it definitively against the glass, which triggered the ping. “You must scan with authority. Show the scanner that you mean business.”

She nodded, and went for the next item, a box of tissues. This time she scanned it with a little more finesse, and the scanner obligingly pinged. Then she followed with a box of crackers. Ping. Shampoo. Ping. More soup. Ping, ping, ping. Suddenly there was no stopping the blue-eyed woman whose callused-kneed ancestor foraged through the forest every day until she found enough berries and nuts to feed her family.

“You’re getting good at this,” I said. “I’m proud of you.” But now it was time for the final exam — a bag of six oranges, which would require a code. It was time for the pro to step in.

“Weighing produce is fun,” I reassured her, picking up the bag. Suddenly, the thin cellophane split, and those six oranges rolled in six different directions. The serenity of the self-checkout devolved into utter chaos, as patrons shuffled and hopped, dodging oranges or trying to catch them. Some were returned to us, and some were never seen again. My face burnt with embarrassment as we paid and walked out.

“You’re probably never going to do that again, are you?” I asked her.

Mom shook her head, treating me to the stare of a woman whose bloodline stood down a woolly mammoth outside the cave.

“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Did you ever jump off the high dive again?”

I never did, and she knew perfectly well I never did.

“It’s OK, honey,” she said, softening. And Mom became Mom again. “With some things, once is more than enough.”