Yes, I am a Mom, and yes, I have expectations
I am an expectant mother.
I just found out Sunday, and it wasn’t a home pregnancy test that confirmed my condition. It was a sign at the mall.
My son, Tom, who is beginning his sophomore year at Texas Tech, needed to go to the mall and buy some back-to-school clothes and guy stuff for his new apartment.
At his age, my checkbook and high gas prices are the about the only two things that can coerce him into a car with me, and I took advantage of it.
We arrived at the mall at about the time of day when frying eggs on the asphalt was optimal and I was looking for the best possible parking space because I am addicted to breathing and air conditioning gives me the best result.
It helps to have a game plan and since both of us like to read, we decided to try to find a space near Books-A-Million. It also helps that the parking spaces in the area around that side of the mall are somewhat like the crappy, purple real estate spaces just after “Go” in the game Monopoly, and easy to get on a busy day.
I found a great parking space right in front of Books-A-Million and whipped in, feeling victorious that I beat a redneck in a huge diesel to the spot. I looked up to see a sign that indicated the spot is reserved for “Expectant Mothers.”
Without turning off the car and losing precious air conditioning my conscience took a vacation and I asked my son if there was a chance in Wichita Falls anyone would believe I had a bun in the oven. He raised his eyebrows and shook his head “no” so I backed out of the parking spot, still convinced I could have that certain “glow” about me in the Texas heat.
I pulled into another space several more car lengths away from Books-A-Million, irritated for the first time in 18 years that I wasn’t pregnant. The heat was getting to me.
Tom asked me if, as a Mom, I had expectations.
I assured him that I do.
-I fully expect to have at least 10 socks without a mate in my “Where the hell did the other sock go?” pile.
-I expect to find that both my children drink straight from the carton when I’m not looking. And sometimes when I am.
-I expect to faint the first time one of them makes their bed. Then I shall mark the calendar.
-I expect that they will roll their eyes and make fun of me every time I use a phrase from the 1980’s. My advice to them? Don’t have a cow.
Of course I have expectations.
Based on that, Tom said I have every right to park in that spot.
I love logic when it’s applied to my benefit.
He also said that if there was going to be a special parking spot for expectant mothers, there should be one for expectant fathers. He then gave a not-so-politically correct explanation that would make Gloria Steinem gasp for air, then demand the first public hanging since I don’t know when. But if memory serves, he had a point.
By the time I realized my right to not only park in, but own, the space – Tom is a motivator – a big diesel truck had parked in it. The same diesel truck inhabited by a lone redneck man.
Tom and I walked the extra thirty steps in 130-degree weather. Me, reasoning that the exercise would appease the cellulite gods; and Tom never saying a word. He walked all over Tech last year in temperatures as hot and I’m sure he thought I was a wus.
A wus with expectations.
I saw that redneck man in the mall, all smug and I started to get mad. But one look at his belly and it was evident that he was five months overdue.
He deserved that spot.