Pressure at the petrol pump

I was cruising down Military Road with the windows down and my right arm lightly burning in the heat of the summer sun. Cyndi Lauper's 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' was on Classic Hits radio, and I was humming contentedly. My daughter had drifted off into a deep slumber in the comfort of her car seat. It was utter bliss.

My carefree mood quickly dissipated with one quick glance at the blinking red light on my dashboard. Uh oh.... I needed to fill up on petrol.

Having been aware that the fuel was running low for quite some time, I was still holding out hope that I would be able to make it home and let my partner take care of it later. Now, I'm no mathemetician, but I did realise that the only way I was going to make it back to my house without filling up on petrol would be in the back of a tow truck. So, what's the problem, you ask? Fill the car up and be done with it, woman!

The problem, dear friends, is that the filling up of petrol presented me with a certain predicament. My child was asleep in the back of the car.  I was faced with a choice - leave my child be, or wake her from her slumber and take her with me into the service station to pay the bill.

What to do? I tell you what my mother would have done in the early 80's - she'd have left me counting sheep while she strolled into the servo without a moment's hesitation. I don't believe she would feel even the slightest sliver of guilt. If we were to time travel back to 1982 and interrupt my mum mid-pump to question whether she would wake me, I am quite confident she'd look at us incredulously and think we were mad.
My instincts told me that Frankie was perfectly safe in the car with all the windows down, loads of fresh air, and safely within my sight. But my ego kept telling me "this is socially unacceptable" and I'd be looked down upon if I even walked ten feet away from her.

As I continued to ponder the ethics behind the quick dash, a car pulled up behind me. The driver was a woman in her late 30s, with a kid of about 7 years old. I caught myself wondering what she would say if I she saw me leave Frankie to go and settle my bill. Would the mother run in, shaming me with accusations of recklessness? Would the parent-police show up and strip me of my license to Mother?

I sighed as I unclipped the childseat buckles and watched Frankie stir into confused wakefulness. Displeasure radiated from her skin as I carried her into the shop over my shoulder. One brief minute later and there I was, re-clipping the seatbelt and putting Frankie back where she had started from. Only this time, the mood had distinctly shifted and was less Cyndi Lauper and more Nick Cave.

Sometimes I wish there was a Morality Handbook that de-muddied the waters around these sorts of things and gave us a clear guide about exactly what is acceptable, what is forbidden, and what is downright stupid when it comes to Motherhood. On my own, with only my instincts to rely on, it would seem that this particular mother does not know best.