As I navigate the parking lot, my kids add a delightful chaos to my errands. My little ones cling to the front of the shopping cart, swaying dangerously as if testing gravity’s hold. Meanwhile, some are determined to dig through the fresh fruit for their beloved fruit snacks, blissfully unaware that their quest will merely lead to crushed chips.
In every parking lot adventure, there’s that moment when I must veer sharply to avoid a tiny, elderly woman who seems oblivious to her surroundings. I then find myself attempting to cross back while a fellow mom in a minivan trails me at a snail’s pace. If only she’d let me go first, she could snag my coveted spot right by the cart return.
That spot is crucial. It allows me to juggle both groceries and kids while also returning the cart without leaving them unaccompanied as I dash across what feels like a dozen lanes. I harbor an irrational fear of clown-masked abductors swooping in during my cart return dash. If that were to happen, taking my kids to a circus would be out of the question. It would be akin to that traumatic day in fifth grade when we watched Poltergeist—a bonus feature my teacher thought was fun. Nothing screams fun for a fifth-grade girl like pee-stained shorts and a lifelong fear of squishy red clown noses.
It’s those fears—and the proximity to the cart return—that keep my kids from ending up on milk cartons.
Yet, there are rare occasions when I venture out alone. A solo shopping trip, although still for the kids, allows me a peaceful stroll across the parking lot. There are no little ones breaking free to wander between the idling cars, no bickering twins over who gets to push the cart, and no tiny feet getting squished as I maneuver the cart for unloading. Most importantly, I don’t have to deal with a car cart.
When I’m alone, I transform entirely. The moment the car door clicks shut behind me, I straighten my back, lift my less-than-fabulous bosom, and let my belly flop over my waistband. For the first time in ages, I walk with confidence, not like a penguin trying to navigate the chaos of children.
I’m no longer just “Mom”; I’m a woman with only a purse on her arm—not my purse plus three toddler-sized princess bags that were unceremoniously dumped on me moments after exiting the vehicle.
In this parking lot, I strut with flair. My shirt is covering my bra, and I don’t have to worry about a little boy tugging at my neckline as we cross in front of stopped cars. I can enjoy my shades perched perfectly on my face instead of dangling on one ear, a casualty of a sibling squabble while I was busy corralling a runaway kid.
When I’m the only shopper, my pants fit properly. My lip gloss isn’t ensnaring stray hairs whipped up by the wind, and I actually have a latte—one that I didn’t have to avoid the drive-thru for, fearing demands for cake pops and chocolate milks.
I’m reclaiming my identity. No longer just “Mom,” I’m “Ma’am”—who may not get carded for wine anymore, but hey, at least I’m old enough to buy it. If it weren’t for the My Little Pony sticker my child stuck to my rear before I left home, I could almost be that sophisticated woman I envision.
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In summary, while the parking lot might seem like a mundane chore, it can also be a transformative space where we reclaim our identities amidst the delightful chaos of motherhood.