As I navigate the parking lot, my children add an air of chaotic spontaneity to my errands. They cling onto the front of the cart, wobbly and at risk of tumbling to test the theory of “hold on or you’ll hit your head.” Meanwhile, the more determined ones dig through the fruit to unearth a box of hidden fruit snacks, convinced they can free the sugary treasure before we reach the car, only to crush the chips instead.
Every time I traverse the parking lot, there’s that moment when I have to dodge a tiny elderly woman backing out of her space without looking. Then, I face the challenge of crossing back while a fellow mom in a minivan trails closely behind, driving at a snail’s pace. If she could just let me pass, she could take my prime spot next to the cart return.
That spot is my sanctuary. It allows me to juggle groceries and kids while securely returning the cart, avoiding the fear of leaving them unattended as I sprint across multiple lanes. I harbor an irrational anxiety about potential threats lurking while I dash the empty cart back to its place—like the fear instilled in me during fifth grade after watching Poltergeist during a supposed bonus fun time. The memory of the film still haunts me, much like my aversion to clowns, ensuring my kids stay off milk cartons.
However, there are those rare occasions when I manage to shop solo. A trip without children means I can walk through the parking lot without a child slipping away from my grasp or siblings fighting over who gets to push the cart. I can avoid accidents where little feet get run over, and I don’t have to worry about groceries being tossed into the trunk at lightning speed. Best of all, I don’t need a car cart.
When I’m alone, I undergo a transformation. As soon as the car door slams shut, I straighten my posture, allowing my less-than-stellar physique to regain some semblance of confidence. My shoulders pull back, and my steps resemble those of a runway model—no longer shuffling like a penguin as one child attempts to navigate the lot between my legs.
I’m no longer just “Mom”; I’m “Ma’am.” I carry only my purse, free from the burden of toddler-themed bags thrust upon me as soon as we exit the vehicle. My shirt is actually covering my bra, and my sunglasses sit properly on my face instead of dangling from one ear, a casualty of a previous struggle between the kids while I juggled a reluctant child in one arm.
When I shop alone, my pants fit correctly, my lip gloss isn’t tangled in hair, and I can enjoy my latte without it spilling due to sudden demands for cake pops or chocolate milk. I feel like myself again, a woman who can buy wine without being carded—though a My Little Pony sticker on my rear serves as a reminder of my children.
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In summary, the experience of shopping alone in a parking lot allows a brief escape from the chaotic world of parenting. It’s a time to reclaim a sense of self, even if it’s just for a moment.