As I maneuver through the parking lot, my children add a delightful layer of chaos to the errand. Little ones precariously cling to the front of the shopping cart, threatening to tumble and put the “hold on tight or you’ll crack your skull” theory to the test. Meanwhile, the more determined ones are on a quest to unearth the box of fruit snacks buried beneath actual fruit, convinced they can liberate the sugary treasures before we reach the car. Spoiler alert: they’ll only crush the chips.
In the midst of my parking lot tightrope act, I’m forced to dodge a tiny elderly woman who is reversing her vehicle without looking. I then have to make my way back across the lot while a fellow frazzled mom in a minivan rolls at a snail’s pace behind me. If only she’d let me cross, she could claim my coveted spot next to the cart return.
That spot is my sanctuary. It allows me to wrestle groceries and children into the car without leaving them unattended as I sprint across twelve lanes. I harbor an irrational fear that clown-masked abductors will strike while I dash an empty cart back to the corral. I can’t risk that; I’d never be able to take my kids to a circus again. It reminds me of that time in fifth grade when we watched Poltergeist during a bonus fun period orchestrated by our teacher. Just what every fifth-grade girl wants: pee-stained shorts and a lifelong dread of spongy red clown noses.
My quest for the cart return spot and my fear of clowns are my secret weapons to keep my kids off milk cartons.
But occasionally, I enjoy the luxury of a solo trip to the store. When I shop alone, I can traverse the parking lot without any child breaking free to wander between the idling SUVs driven by newly licensed teens. No squabbles erupting between my twins over who gets to push the cart back to the van. No little feet getting squished as I attempt to line up the cart for unloading. And best of all, I don’t need a car cart.
When I’m on my own in the parking lot, a transformation occurs. As soon as I close the car door behind me, I straighten up, lifting my less-than-stellar bosom and allowing my belly to rest over my waistband for the first time in ages. My shoulders pull back, and I stride forward, moving with the grace of a runway model, or at least like someone who isn’t waddling like a penguin while a child navigates the lot from between my legs.
I am no longer just “Mom.” I’m now “Ma’am,” who thankfully doesn’t get carded for wine anymore, but hey, at least I’m of legal age to buy it. If it weren’t for the My Little Pony sticker one of my kids attached to my rear before I left, I might even look like the lady I imagine myself to be.
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In summary, the stark contrast between shopping with kids and alone is a reminder of the juggling act of motherhood, where every grocery trip feels like a mini-adventure. Amid the chaos, there are moments of clarity that remind me of my individuality beyond the title of “Mom.”
Keyphrase: Mom in the Parking Lot
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