'As I put my screaming toddler in the car, a stranger's words left me stunned.'

It was 11:15am.

I'd done the mental mathematics and knew I had a window of approximately 15 minutes to get my child home and into bed for her nap before all hell broke loose.

We were already on the cusp of an almightly tantrum, and as usual, the cause and effect did not relate. We'd had a lovely morning, actually, by my standards. I wasn't entirely sure how we'd arrived here.

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When she woke early I was full of optimism and hope. Today was our day. No work, no daycare, just 12 leisurely hours to fill in each other's company. Today I would be a chill mum. I would let the day guide us, not the other way around.

I decided to take us to a new playground the next suburb over with a quick pitstop for coffee on the way. I took a few sips in the car, feeling it power me up. How lucky, I thought, that I can enjoy this coffee while she sits in the back reading her favourite book.

We had a play on the beach afterwards. Mummy had even remembered the bucket and spade, and the sunscreen and towel and hat and snacks and swimming costume and swim nappy and drink bottle and sandals and spare change of clothes.

Then we sat in the park having a picnic with all our (her) favourite snacks, chasing birds and nibbling fruit together.

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But now we were here, in meltdown city, crying over getting in the car. For the 10-minute drive home. 10 minutes to safety, but it stretched out like an eternity.

I only had myself to blame. She was overtired, the screaming turning into hyperventilating. I'd left it too long. If only I'd skipped the picnic and done the snacks in the car. But it's not really safe, is it? But surely everyone does it.

It was 30 degrees outside but hotter in the car. Before I put her in I needed to get the air blasting, so I held her on my lap as I switched on the car, turned the dial, hot air streaming in and the screaming from her intensifying.

One positive of the escalating tantrum was that the crying would keep her awake, I reasoned, saving me from the need to perform a one-woman show using my hand as a kind of puppet as I sang along to The Wiggles, lest her eyes start to flutter closed. Because a car nap would be disastrous, wouldn't it? How cruel was I that I would let her cry to stop her sleeping, instead of getting her out and comforting her?

On it went, the self-talk and self-flagellation that comes with the gig. One thousand tiny considerations a minute, internally tick-tick-ticking. It is so very hard to be chill, I thought, when someone's entire being and wellbeing depends on the decisions you make.

And then: frustration. Mine this time, not hers. How had I let it come to this? Why couldn't I just go with it? Let it happen, let her snooze in the car. Would it be the end of the world? Why did it feel like the end of the world? Why did I even try?

All these thoughts coalesced as I struggled to get her wriggly body into the car seat, her spine going convex as she protested.

It was at that moment, when I had nothing left to give, my f*cks having f*cked off entirely, with a backpack hanging off my left arm, her drink bottle in my right, the car keys in my mouth, the pram lingering on the sidewalk and my toddler's foot in my face, that the man in the car parked next to ours rolled his window down.

I hadn't even seen him, I was so focused on the task(s) at hand: put screaming baby in car. Ignore people at the cafe opposite observing your behaviour like a zoo animal. Get pram off path. Get on with it, you're losing time!

As I finally pulled my daugther's straps tight and closed the door, taking that brief, quiet moment of micro-rest, I saw him. He was about 60 years old, with white hair and a blue polo shirt. I don't think I'll ever forget his face.

And he said to me: "You're doing a great job."

I paused, feeling the tears well up against my will.

"Hardest job in the world. I can tell you're a great mum."

I smiled, thanked him and put the pram in the car. I got into the driver's seat, my toddler still wailing in the back, and I let myself cry too. I didn't want him to see it, but as we drove away, I sobbed.

For all the times I thought I wasn't a good mum.

For all the times I questioned every decision, every compromise, every sacrifice.

For the endless guilt. So much guilt. Guilt over feeling guilty.

But mostly I cried because I felt, very momentarily, validated: all these tiny actions, so inconsequential and unseen, finally seen. By a complete stranger.

I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

It probably meant very little to him — this man who hands out compliments like that's something strangers do for each other.

But it meant everything to me.

Feature image: Supplied.