The month of May may say that Mother’s Day is within its domain, but for me, my birthing days are the true Mother’s Days. This July 21st will mark the 20th anniversary of that transformation and the first birthday where my oldest will not be with me to celebrate his life.

Because, as heart-breaking as it can be, the whole point of this wild ride is to do our absolute best with our kids so that they can live independent of us. That is exactly what he is doing. Twelve hundred miles from my body, part of my heart beats somewhere in the desert south of Albuquerque. Bittersweet, indeed.

As I prepare for a very emotional day, I am becoming more nostalgic for my first baby, seeking out photos of his sneaky grin and wild hair. Many of those memories are surrounded by the Co-op: the family that works with me, the shoppers who come and chat with me, and the actual building where both of my boys grew up. When I started here, my oldest was not quite three years old, and this store was a wonderland to him. I asked him recently what he missed most about the Co-op, now that he’s been away from home for a couple months, and he said, “the community and growing up with everyone.”

The comfort of having the same cashier looking back at you as you grow. From when you can barely peer over the lip of the counter, to counting change into their hand as you nervously buy your first snack all by yourself (because your mom is chatting AGAIN with someone who didn’t quite pick up on the signs that she isn’t actually working right now), until one day you are working there, helping to bag up groceries for busy holiday shoppers—this experience has shaped parts of my kid’s heart in the best ways. He trusts that people are mostly kind and that being kind to most people unlocks a secret sweetness that many folks miss out on. That’s a small piece of some Norman Rockwell painting I just didn’t expect my life to include.

The teenagers of co-workers who watched my kids while I worked still wander through the Co-op, as staff and shoppers. I see them and am flooded with memories. How Ryan, who works in produce, was the first cool guy that showed my ecstatic 9-year-old how to play a video game. He came home in a digital daze, worried that I would find out and my crunchy earth mama heart would be crushed that he had enjoyed blowing up a tank. Truthfully, I kinda was. I tried my best to shield my kids from parts of our world that felt too violent or too commercial—yeah, I didn’t land at the Co-op by chance, folks.

Working with other crunchy earth mamas gave me mentors with great advice as I navigated trying to raise my kids with values that weren’t always popular. Bev, the gal who hired me at the Co-op, was a source of much of this wisdom. I envied her commune ways and how she raised her kids on snacks made from carob and honey. Once I was conflicted about a very simple thing: my kid wanted nothing more than a Spiderman sweatshirt he had seen at Goodwill. I’m tempted to alter the details of this because I know it sounds ridiculous, but I was that crunchy—not to mention the school he attended didn’t allow any “character” shirts. Bev encouraged me to say yes as often as I could, because giving your child what their heart desires is a fleeting gift. I bought it and the Strawberry Shortcake sweatshirt he also wanted. She was right: that was an easy ask and an easy yes with a big reception of smiles and hugs.

It wasn’t just the people of the Co-op who helped to nurture my family—it’s the products, too. The produce section, with its new and unique fruits from around the world, often became a centerpiece of the dinner table. Between conversations with the staff and YouTube videos, we’d try to figure out the when and how of eating a Cherimoya or a Buddha’s Hand. We’d wait for the arrival of the Taylor’s Gold Pears and try to describe their unique flavor—was that a hint of pineapple? Or try to recreate a dish with fried plantains our oldest once had when he was in Ecuador, a trip he funded by working here.

Living on the West Side, we’d watch the people working in the field, and they’d wonder if those strawberries would be sold at the Co-op and then go find the farms that did sell to us. We’d talk about what organic means and how of the many benefits to the people and the planet, being able to support our neighbors so they can work in a field without being exposed to chemicals is the best reason to pay a little more for food.

The deli sandwiches have been consumed on the picnic table in our backyard countless times and that satisfaction of having your child snarf down a big, healthy meal is priceless. On hot summer days, I’d bring home a jar of Jeff’s Gardens Greek Pepperoncinis, some jugs of Santa Cruz’ Raspberry Lemonade, and whatever new flavor of Kettle Chips there was. In the moment, I was too tired to fully take in the preciousness of those moments, but now I do get a little misty-eyed in the condiment aisle.

When I was pregnant with my second son, I worked in Human Resources until a few weeks before my due date. My coworkers donated money for me to buy the birthing tub, and when he was born in mid-August at home with the help of a midwife (who still shops at the Co-op with her family), I’m told that folks were laughing and hooting in the aisles in his honor. He recently bought a hammock in mercantile for a school camping trip, he gave the cashier my Co-op number and followed it up with “I’m Nancylee’s son,” to clarify that he got the discount because his mom worked here. He didn’t work here...yet. Standing behind him was his kindergarten teacher who didn’t recognize him because life’s changes are never so shocking as they are between the age of 10 and 14. She was shocked by his height and his voice and his short hair, but he recognized her. Even if he didn’t remember how she used to sing songs with him about Springtime flowers, he was at the Co-op, and that comes with the familiar comfort. He grew up knowing that this old brick building with his mom’s office on the third floor and an elevator he used to have to stretch up on his tip toes to hit the UP button is full of kind people who want a kinder world.

A Good Place To Grow