The young couple hovered over the dairy case, picking up blocks of processed cheese but not adding any to their cart.

Back and forth, they whispered. They were tense.

“Look at the list,” he said.

The young woman pulled out a pamplet from her bag and scanned it with her finger. She stopped and pointed something out to the young man. He nodded and chose a block of cheddar, putting it in their cart. He pushed the cart to the milk case. She held the small of her back, walking slowly and rubbing her belly. Baby, soon.

Poking out of her bag was the state of Colorado’s WIC folder.

The folder hasn’t changed after all these years? I marvelled to myself.

When our first baby was born, I reluctantly signed up for WIC. It stands for Women, Infants, and Children, and it provides checks to purchase milk, bread, eggs, cereal, fruits, beans, peanut butter, and formula for pregnant or nursing women, infants, and small children. Approved foods are on a strict, nutritious list.

At the time, my husband was working full-time at a TV station and even with a regular paycheck we barely kept our heads above water. We weren’t the unfair stereotypes of young, dropout mom with a dead-beat dad. We had college degrees. We were married. We came from nice places with nice families who took nice vacations.

It wasn’t supposed to be like that.

The WIC checks helped those first few months until I was able to find a part-time job that would work with our childcare needs and my husband’s odd TV station hours. Things were still tight, but we no longer needed to use the checks. I stopped going to the required appointments. It was an enormous relief. Eventually, my husband got a very good job in Denver and money was no longer a huge source of worry. I could buy all the milk and Corn Flakes I wanted.

During our season of poverty, I felt deeply ashamed each time I approached the checkout counter with my cart and my checks. As I handed checks over to the clerk, I couldn’t look him or her in the eye. I couldn’t look other shoppers in the eye.

Did that cold milk taste creamy? Was the cereal crunchy and filling? Were the eggs I scrambled fluffy?

I don’t remember. Shame puts a damper on taste buds. But nobody made me feel ashamed. I put that burden on myself.

The foods were enough to fuel me, though. I cared for our baby daughter, rocking her, taking her on walks on park paths. I was able to sing to her, play with her, shake rattles for her to reach. I nursed her, and when she weaned some of the formula she drank was paid for by Colorado taxpayers.

I still feel a snap of shame when I admit I was on WIC, and it’s been 12 years. Seeing that young couple at the store brought up those feelings again. I wanted to tell them things might be better a year from now. I know how it is. You won’t always have to buy peanut butter with governmental permission.

I’d tell them.

In a whisper, of course.