My husband, Bill, utters the dreaded words, “I’ll go to the grocery store with you.”

I stifle a groan. I know he is either bored or thinks he is being helpful.

“If I come along, it will be quicker.” He has already placed the bags in the car and turned on the ignition before I can reply, look at fliers or make a list.

Before shopping, I’d always ask the family for special requests. Invariably, “food” was the answer. There was the implicit belief that I had memorized all of their preferences. And, for the most part, I have. Bill, on the other hand, knows what he likes. He also mistakenly believes that if he likes it, everyone else does too.

Every mother knows that shopping alone can be a peaceful haven. No one demands your attention; you have time to think, plan and retrace your steps. You have control over your immediate schedule, an absolute rarity. Although we never admit it to our families, this task can be absolute bliss. Today won’t be one of those times.

The great divide between shopping for the household and shopping for one man’s needs opens as soon as we enter the store. Bananas are swiftly placed in the cart, which disappears around an end cap display. I am temporarily stranded with my arms full of produce. Trying not to become a comic disaster, I sprint to the cereal aisle. There is a close call when a container of berries starts to spring open, but I manage to hold the lid down with my chin. Slightly out of breath, I catch up with Bill in front of his beloved Cheerios.

Nonchalantly, he reaches over. “Oh, can I help you with that? You’re lucky you didn’t drop something.”

I picture myself as a cartoon character, steam pouring from my ears. But a friendly voice greets us and my ego prevents me from losing it in front of an audience. With Bill temporarily engaged in conversation, I excuse myself, get my bearings and head for the meat section.

Perusing the offerings, I try to make sensible selections for the week’s meals. Temperature, time obligations, and the pantry stock of other necessary ingredients are forming algorithms in my head. “If I buy the chicken breast filets, then I should get breadcrumbs … we haven’t had chicken parmesan in a while …”

Thwack, thwack. The sound of wrapped meat hitting the bottom of the cart interrupts my moment of planning. “These are on sale,” Bill proudly exclaims as I examine the mystery meat.

“Yes, but do you have any meal ideas? And will anyone else eat that?” I counter.

“Oh, you’ll figure it out.” He says confidently as he once again whisks away the cart.

When I try to steer him toward the snacks, he resists. “I need to start eating better. No junk food, cookies, or ice cream.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yup. We’re done, right?” Without waiting for an answer, he joins the checkout line with a nearly empty cart.

I contemplate sending him alone on the next trip, but based on experience, this is not a good idea.

First, he requires a detailed list, organized not only aisle by aisle but also by relative location on the shelves. And if he doesn’t spot the listed item, he simply doesn’t get it. He will never be an Instacart shopper.

Second, he knows just enough to be dangerous. Shape, size and relative appearance are his guides, never the label. Once, while I was away, this culminated in the Great Macaroni and Cheese Disaster — where Bill used sweetened condensed milk instead of evaporated milk. Yuck, just yuck.

There’s solace in knowing that I’m not alone. According to “Supermarket News,” an industry newspaper, while men are becoming more involved in grocery shopping, their habits trend gender specific. While women shop for the household, “men are more apt to select the items that they’ll enjoy on their own.” When men are given lists, they only buy designated items and are not likely to search for them. Sound familiar?

Later that night, Bill is rummaging through the cabinets. A bag opens. He is munching on chocolate chips.

Irritated, I interrupt his moment of chocolate bliss. “Hey, I need those for a bake sale tomorrow.”

Unrepentant, he counters, “I’m hungry. We just went to the store … Why isn’t there anything to eat?”