AS A mother of an 18-month-old, and one ready to burst forth onto the Government database - if we still qualify for a baby bonus - I am livid about the treatment of those of us with prams.

Cafes, mostly the chain variety, have no high chairs. Waitresses in their teens roll their eyes at women like me, grappling with spiteful strollers or performance-prams, who just happen to want a quiet latte to evoke memories of a former life.

Further investigation reveals these cafes have "a no high chair policy". Don't they realise that "nappy valley dwellers" and working mums are their bread and butter?

Supermarket aisles are too narrow for prams, mostly groaning under the weight of $80 worth of goods three or four times a week. We shop for multitudes and are the main source of income for these stores.

God forbid my youngster should squawk or fuss in a queue. The slightest squeal elicits scowls. When I solve the crisis with a rapidly opened biscuit packet, there's a flurry of head shaking and tongue clicking as if I am single-handedly responsible for infant obesity.

Now eight months pregnant, I am frequently at the checkout, lumbering as I load groceries onto the conveyor. Recently, an elderly man grumbled about how tedious it was to wait behind me. This fellow was using a walking frame so I am betting he wasn't about to set a land speed record. Or there are the smug gym couples whose revulsion at my massive belly is palpable. Give me a few weeks, I will be back into the sass & bides, with no assistance from diets, equipment or cigarettes. Breast feeding is a marvel.

As I sit with a hefty bill before me, a combination of hormones and devil-may-care has prompted me to remind people that our kids - good, bad, indifferent - are the taxpayers of tomorrow.

They will pay for our roads, schools and child support.

Give mums a break. We don't deserve the tantrums either. We are at ground zero of their fury. It leaves us further demoralised to shoulder the grimaces and groans of an unsympathetic public.

Perhaps we don't always plan our trip to the post office or supermarket properly and don't feed, water, change or discipline our brats sufficiently. But mostly, we're just trying to keep it all together, make a living and bring up a new life.

Readers are invited to send 450 words on what makes their blood boil to heckler@smh.com.au. Include your daytime phone details.