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Moms in Parking Lots
Published 5/9/26
There's a very specific kind of day that no one really talks about.
I watched one unfold in front of me on my lunch break,
in a grocery store parking lot.
A mom was trying to get her kids into their seats and load groceries into the trunk.
You could tell she was done. Not angry, not upset, just done.
The kind of done that builds quietly over hours.
A man in a big truck pulled up behind her and honked.
Then did that little hand motion like, "hurry it up."
And that was it.
That was the breaking point.
She threw her arms up and said,
"Chill! I have kids! Park somewhere else!"
(To her defense, there were at least 60 empty parking spaces. It was 12:30 on a Monday.)
Two teenage boys were walking next to me. One of them said,
"Daaaang dude… that lady needs to chill."
And I just about lost it for her.
She needs to chill? The mom who has probably been up since 6 a.m. with three kids?
Who just made it through a grocery store run with them in tow?
Who's now just trying to get everyone back in the car so she can go home and feed them lunch?
But yeah. She's the one who needs to chill. Right.
I've Been That Mom
I've been that mom. And if you're a mom, you probably have too. Because we know it wasn't the guy in the truck honking at her, it was everything leading up to it.
You wake up and stand in front of a closet full of clothes and somehow have nothing to wear. Everything feels wrong. Too tight, too overstimulating, too much.
So you put something on, not because you like it, but because you can't leave the house naked. You get the kids dressed, which is an event in itself. You make it to the car, and that alone feels like a win.
You tell yourself, just a quick trip. In and out. And you already know you don't want to run into anyone. Not because you don't like people, just because you don't have it in you to be perceived today. No small talk. No "how are you?" No pretending you're not barely holding it together for reasons you can't even fully explain.
And then, of course, all the self-checkouts are closed.
So now you have to talk to someone. The cashier comments on your groceries. They're being nice, you know they are. But something in you is already stretched so thin that even kindness feels like too much.
And you hold it together, like you always do. Until something small, so small it wouldn't matter on any other day, pushes you right to the edge. A honk, a comment, a look. And suddenly it all spills out.
Nobody Takes Pictures of These Moments
No one takes pictures of those moments. We don't pull out our phones when we're overwhelmed in a parking lot. We don't document the days we didn't feel like ourselves. We definitely don't save the moments we wish had gone differently.
And honestly… we wouldn't want to.
But here's what I keep thinking about: one day, that moment won't just be "the day I lost it in a parking lot."
It'll be a day I was doing it all. A day I showed up when I absolutely did not want to. A day I carried more than anyone could see with their eyes. And maybe it will be a day my kids don't remember as embarrassing or messy, but as normal.
Because to them, I wasn't failing. I was just Mom, loading up the groceries on a Monday afternoon.
Motherhood Isn't Built on Highlights
Mother's Day has a way of making us think about the highlight reel of motherhood. The best moments. The sweetest memories. The version of ourselves we wish we were all the time.
But motherhood isn't built on highlights. It's built on thousands of ordinary days. Some beautiful, some hard, mostly a mix of both. And all of them, every single one, are part of the life you're creating.
At Chatbooks, we talk a lot about “printing your memories.” But it's not really about perfect photos or perfect days. It's about being able to look back and see something you couldn't always see in the moment, that you were there, that you showed up, that even on the days that felt like too much, you were still building something beautiful.
This Counts
So if today feels like one of those days, the kind where you don't want to be seen, where everything feels like too much, where you're just trying to make it through, just know: This counts. Not because it was perfect. But because it was real, and real is what lasts.
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