It's Saturday morning and I'm enjoying – no relishing- some child-free shopping time.
I have a coffee in one hand and my phone in the other, texting my friend to find out if her soon-to-be five-year-old is still into The Octonauts or if he's moved on to another franchise. It's his birthday party later on and – true to form –I'm doing the last minute present dash. "Story of my life," my friend texts back.
The mum tries everything to coax her little one back into the pram. She goes through the parenting toolbox (which frankly can be a little wanting sometimes), before stopping with that all-too-familiar look of defeat.As I walk towards K-Mart in search of Lego ( the toy of choice), I hear the high-pitched scream of a toddler. Outside the entrance, I see a little blond boy lying on the ground, arms and legs outstretched like a starfish. His mother has a baby strapped to her chest and I watch her, unable to bend over, slowly lowering herself down to talk to her little boy.
Exhausted.
Witnessing her struggle, I'm pulled right back into those early years of motherhood. I'm there with her, on the verge of tears, sleep-deprivation having rendered me a far more fragile version of myself.
I'm remembering the feeling of being onstage, my parenting on display under bright lights, in front of an audience of "experts" ready to critique my ever failing move. I remember the shame of being watched, of feeling incompetent, of vowing not to leave the house until my son turned 10 – I'd have the hang of it by then, surely.
The little's boy's screams bring me back to the present and I realise – much to my embarrassment –that I've been looking in the mother's direction the entire time. Eyes glazed over, lost in my own walk down tantrum memory lane, I hadn't realised. The mother meets my eye and looks away quickly, before I have time to smile. "I've been there," I wanted that smile to say, "I see you."
But she's busily getting her son into his pram, struggling with his buckle and collecting the dummy he's thrown onto the floor in front of him. And, as I watch her walk away, I have a moment of clarity.
Not everyone who stares is judging you.
Even though it feels that way, even though you want a trap door to open up and swallow you, sometimes the people looking have simply been there, too.
They're back in that moment, they're reliving the exhaustion, the relentlessness of those precious – but oh-so exhausting – early years of parenthood. Perhaps they're going through it currently, and in that glance in your direction, they're simply feeling the overwhelming relief of not having "that child", today.
If you're deep in the throes of tantrums, sensing all those eyes when your little one planks in the supermarket, remember: not everyone is judging. Some will be – that's the sad but inevitable truth. But that judgement says more about them, than it does about you.
Many, though, are simply feeling compassion. They want you to know, "You've got this Mumma."
You've got this.