Helen Walne’s Human League
I confess that I waited until the furore had died down. I imagined myself being pummelled by half a dozen women holding babies.
“Take that, you insensitive, low-life scum,” they would yell, beating me with nappy bags. “Selfish, barren old hag,” they would screech.
Now I can admit it: I make a point of parking in moms-and-tots parking bays.
There. I said it. So sue me.
It’s not that I’m spiteful or have it in for small humans. I don’t. In fact, I am rather fond of children, especially when they’re asleep or are wearing furry jumpsuits topped with fake bear ears.
However, I do have a few problems with designated parking for mothers and their offspring.
First, since when did having kids become a disability?
People choose to have children; disabled people do not choose to have seized limbs.
My brother and sister have muscular dystrophy. They’re not in wheelchairs yet, and are not technically disabled, yet walking is difficult for them.
When my sister was staying with me last year, we went Christmas shopping. The parking lot of the local mall was so full of Prados, it looked like a hunting convention. We eventually found a spot miles from the entrance and during our slow trek towards The Place That Would Take All Our Money, my sister valiantly joked: “By the time we get there, it’ll be Easter.”
What about all the other not-disabled-enough shoppers: the elderly, the infirm, those with hip replacements? It seems wrong that they have to hobble through parked cars while freshly bred and physically able mums spring out of cars parked a perfume spritz from the entrance.
I respect the law. Okay, I did once steal a bindi and a street sign, but they were for sentimental reasons. But the moms and tots signs are not law; they’re just something the mall has decided on. And why have they made this decision?
Greed. They know it is often women with children who shop at the mall. And if it’s an upmarket mall, they know that moms with tots often equals stay-at-home, full-pursed moms with entire wardrobes of Country Road.
They want to make shopping (read: parting with thousands of rands) as easy as possible. Entitle them and they will be enticed.
Forget about the likes of my sister who, if she wasn’t so exhausted by the time she arrived, would gladly blow half her salary on unpronounceable food and body creams made from rare sloths.
Parents these days have become wussies. My mother had four children and when we were old enough to totter, we would walk with her to the local Spar, battling ferocious rams and drunk tramps on the way. At night, we were lucky if we had a toilet roll to sleep in.
And what about dads with tots? Aunts with tots? Hobbling old grannies with tots? Will they be ticketed by a security guard for daring to park in the holy sanctum of mother and child?
I’ve thought about how I will explain myself when I’m finally caught parking my car in one of these bays.
I could print out the above rant; perhaps decorate the paper with cherub pictures.
I could also present the security guy with a handful of Jelly Tots. “Look, they’re my tots. See?”
But I’m not fond of sweets and have never seen the point of scrapbooking.
I did ask my husband if he’d be prepared to wear a Babygro and sit in a bucket in the back of the car, but he pointed out that he’s a size 36 and buying wine from the liquor store might be a bit awkward.
So I will just have to rely on my imagination. When Security Guy has me by the collar, demanding to know where my children are, I will feign indignation.
“What? You can’t see them? Typical power mentality.”
Then I will point towards a spot near him. “That there’s Darryl. He likes water-skiing and once threw the javelin so far it struck the headmaster’s head. Killed him instantly.”
And when Security Guy’s mouth begins to quiver, I will wave my hand in front of him. “This here’s Sophie. Loves embalming and chopping things up. Her poor father – God rest his soul.”
Then I will bleep-bleep the car, gather up my imaginary brood and stride purposefully towards the entrance. I will wink at the old man in the disabled bay launching himself into his wheelchair.