Last weekend, the Guv and I traveled to Boston for our best man's wedding while my mom cared for our children for five blessed, sacred, blissful, holy days. Everybody, please take a moment to praise whatever gods you believe in for grandparents who give us breaks. God bless 'em, every one.
While on this trip, though, I became that person. You know -- the crochety lady who scowls at many of the overly-permissive parents of overly-coddled small children. The one that we're all sure doesn't have her own kids, for, if she did, she'd understand. But, alas, on that point, these know-it-all-first-time parents are right -- I don't understand. I do have children, but I don't understand how other parents can do the following things:
- in an airport, allow your obviously-sick, snotty, drooling 18-month old to come up to me while I'm sitting, proceed to beat on my legs -- surprisingly hard -- with well-slobbered hands, and then, when I choose to stand up because I can't even see who's watching this sick baby, walk across the terminal from about a hundred yards away, grab your kid by the hand, harumph, and say, "she obviously doesn't like kids." No, lady, I just don't like your kid. Get it straight.
- on an airplane, in the row in front of me, read to their child in tandem at the top of their lungs using every single annoying voice from Sesame Street. I didn't even know there were so many books inspired by the show that neither of my kids ever liked. After two painful hours, I was trying to muster the courage to ask them to quiet down (I could even hear them through full-volume earphones!) when the mother said, "Oh! We can stop now! He's asleep!" They recommenced on the descent, though. And the funny thing is that the child was an absolute angel and certainly, at approximately age 4, did not need this level of entertainment. I'm betting that he doesn't have a quiet moment to ever figure out what to do for himself, the poor little thing.
- in a bar, bring a child. Ever. Anywhere near a bar. Seriously. Bars are where people go to escape from their lives, not to have your whining, crying, hungry preschooler annoying everyone in the bar while you sip your wine and ignore her while waiting for a table. And when the child bumps you, forcing you to spill that red wine all over your white outfit, you have no right to lecture the child and all of the rest of us in your own high-pitched whine. Seriously. Go away and wait for your table elsewhere. (*Note: I exempt family-friendly bars, like our town's sports bar, from this ... also places like Chili's and Friday's. But a high-end restaurant? Not so much.)
- in a bar, bring a child, after 10 pm. That's right: the above bullet point requires this addendum. What brand of fools bring their three kids under five to a bar late-night? Parents who need a break, that's who! Re-read my intro, people: that's what grandparents are for -- or babysitters, or friends, or DYFS. 'Cause if your tiny little kids are still awake at 10 pm and the only way you can deal is to take them to a bar so that you can drown out their tears, you have very serious issues. Those issues are filled under "g" for "get a grip" and "i" for "you're an idiot" and also in the book "Go the F*ck to Sleep" under every single page.
- in a restaurant, whip out a DVD player, sans earphones, and blare a movie for your approximately 7 y.o. while you try to hold a conversation with your spouse. If your school-aged child needs to watch TV at meals, you've already screwed her up badly enough that she's going to have an eating disorder and also need therapy. As well, from the forced and unpleasant state of your conversation -- at least, the parts that I could hear over the songs of Aladdin -- your marriage isn't going to last anyway, so Little Jenny is also going to have to handle a broken home. So let's get this straight: she won't have two parents, requires loud noise to drown out unpleasantness, and probably will have public anxiety absent those things. And people wonder what's wrong with kids these days.
- in an adult clothing store, allow your child to sneak peeks into others' dressing rooms. At what age can peeping toms be arrested? I'm not kidding, 'cause I'm pretty sure your third grader should not have seen my tatas. Little pervert.
And that's just part one of my diatribe. I'm about to travel again, and God help us all, I'm getting my crotchety on. I guess I'm in this space to represent the parents who think it is okay to, umm, parent. I have never been a perfect parent -- in fact, I can name a dozen things I screwed up today alone! -- but I really will not tolerate my own kids' actions adversely affecting other people. There is a line. They will not cross it. They have plenty of freedom: freedom to self-entertain, freedom to be in a dressing room with me, freedom to participate in a family conversation at a dinner table that miraculously lacks TVs. I don't know how they've lived absent the over-indulgences so many have enjoyed -- and yet, they seem pretty swell to me.
And when they don't? I call Grandma. Everyone needs a break sometimes -- even the kids.
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