Not A Winning Formula

(My husband is on a business trip and my car is not working, and I’m uncomfortable walking the six miles into town with my infant daughter, so I’ve been having our nonperishable groceries delivered to the house. It’s near the holidays and deliveries are running behind, even more than I have allowed for. I call the store and get a rush put on the most important item, and they assure me it will arrive the next morning. Sure enough, the next morning I hear a knock at the door and go to answer.)

Delivery Worker: “Okay, sign here. Rush order, huh? Last-minute Christmas shopping?”

Me: “Actually, it’s formula for my baby. Thank you so much for getting this here so quickly! We were almost out!”

Delivery Worker: “You feed your kid formula? What is wrong with you?”

Me: “Uh… right. Well, I’ll just take that…”

(I reach for the package, but she isn’t letting go. We struggle awkwardly for a minute before I yank the package from her hands and step back through the doorway into the house.)

Delivery Worker: “Hey! That’s rude!”

Me: “Not as rude as taking food from a baby!” *slams door*