Updated: Aug. 12, 2015
Originally Published: June 27, 2015
As I navigate the chaotic parking lot, my children add a layer of delightful disarray to my errands. My little ones cling precariously to the front of the shopping cart, threatening to tumble headfirst and put the “hold on tight or you’ll crack your skull” theory to the test. Meanwhile, the more determined ones are on a mission to unearth the box of fruit snacks buried beneath the healthier offerings, oblivious to the havoc they’re wreaking in the cart.
Every time I attempt the balancing act of crossing this parking lot, I find myself swerving to dodge a miniature elderly lady who’s reversing out of her space without a glance. I then have to make a quick decision to return to my lane while a fellow mom in a minivan inches along behind me, clearly frazzled. If only she’d let me pass, she could take my spot right by the cart return.
That cart return spot is pure gold. It allows me to wrangle both groceries and kids into the car while also being able to return the cart without leaving my little ones unattended. My mind races with irrational fears of masked abductors lurking, ready to pounce while I dash away with the empty cart. After all, I wouldn’t want to miss out on circus adventures after rescuing them from clowns. It brings back memories of watching Poltergeist in fifth grade, a ‘fun’ distraction that left me with a fear of clown noses and pee-stained shorts.
This is the method to my madness; it’s how I keep my kids off milk cartons. Yet, there are rare occasions when I venture out to the store alone. When I’m on my own, I relish the experience of traversing the parking lot without little feet darting between cars or fights breaking out over who gets to steer the cart. There’s no risk of rolling over tiny toes, and my groceries won’t end up catapulted into the trunk. Best of all, I don’t need a car cart.
Alone in the parking lot, I feel like a different person. The moment the car door clicks shut, I stand tall, lifting my self-esteem alongside my less-than-perfect form. I walk with purpose, recalling how to stride like I’m on a runway rather than waddling like a penguin, all thanks to the absence of my little sidekicks.
I’m a woman, not just a mom, with a purse hanging elegantly from my arm—just my purse, not a collection of toddler bags with princess themes that I’m constantly juggling. My shirt is gracefully covering my bra, no longer tugged at by curious hands. I’m not a walking advertisement for chaos; I look chic in my sunglasses, properly perched on my face instead of dangling askew from the previous week’s scuffle.
When I’m the only shopper, my pants fit, my lip gloss isn’t a trap for wayward hairs, and I can sip my latte without worrying about spills. I’m no longer just “Mom”; I’m a grown woman who can buy wine without needing to present ID—and thankfully, the My Little Pony sticker adorning my rear is the only remnant of my motherhood.
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In summary, the parking lot transforms into a stage where I can momentarily shed my identity as “Mom” and embrace the woman I once was, navigating life’s chaos with humor and grace.