Parking Lot

I walked into a parking lot,
holding tight to my toddler’s hand.

He wiggled his fingers loose.

Running and giggling,

as if this escape was an innocent game.

He wanted me to catch him.

“No! You come back here!”

He misread my discipline: only a playful tactic assuring his capture.

He did not listen.

He ran behind a parked car, shielding his precious face.

I caught up to him, smacked his little hand,

told him to never run in a parking lot again!

An old lady had observed the scene.

She spoke,

“My, my! That little man must exhaust his mommy.”

I didn’t respond to her casual dismissal

of the rescue that just took place.

Her inability to see the relief flooding my blood.

How she shamed my little gem, suggesting that his life exhausts mine.

How could his little legs ever outrun mine?

This old lady is all the men who remained with their families until work became more important. Then they justified their abandonment.

This old lady is the mother who wanted seven children, but only birthed two because her parents told her that was all she could afford.

This old lady is all the fathers who didn’t fight for the unborn because the law told them the mother’s choice was more significant than their own.

This old lady is the church members who call a baby’s cry during a Sunday morning sermon a nuisance and a distraction instead of an ordaining of praise.

This old lady defines babies as dirty diapers, late night feedings, and needing a nap. Forgetting that they giggle, grow, and surprise.

This world’s laziness can be more dangerous than a parking lot. 
Devaluing our children. 
Labeling them a burden. 

It is this world that exhausts me. 
My child is my energy.