Forget You

So I took my kids back today to the place where I was hit with a 3rd Person Insult, but, as usual, we had a great time!  It was a relatively quiet, air-conditioned outlet for kid activity for two hours.  Can’t beat that!  Except that I seem to always make an enemy when I’m there… what the hell?

Cue scene.  Feeding my two kids lunch.  Neither of them is sitting on the table.  Little Boy comes over and swipes my package of wipes from my diaper bag.  I am not concerned, except that it is the “Cars” package, and Jax was horrified when Little Boy makes off with Lightning McQueen and Mater.  Little Boy scoots around a foosball table, being short enough to walk under the foosball bars without having to duck.  Jax sprints around the corner of the table, hell-bent on getting his wipes back, only to get clotheslined by a metal bar.  Ouch.  His feet literally are lifted off the ground and his legs are still pumping as he is thrown horizontally in the air before landing on his head.  But does he cry?  No.  He blinks, wipes the dazed look off his face, and then charges after the kid who is only a few months older than Em at most, steals back his wipes, then returns for a kiss on his boo boo.  Little Boy’s mother was nowhere to be seen during this episode. 

Cut to scene II.  Five minutes later.  Little Boy’s mother returns.  He makes his way over to where we are eating lunch to beg for some raisins.  I can tell unequivocally that he is too little for raisins, so instead of being my normal, outgoing Mom-self who would happily share with Little Boy (with his mother’s permission), I just apologize to him and send him on his way.  Mom gives me a bit of a stink-eye.  Two minutes later, Em decides she has had enough of this boring lunch and takes it upon herself to spice things up a bit.  She flicks her napkin that I was using as a makeshift plate, sending all of her lunch flying everywhere, including pieces of broken-up peanut butter cracker sandwiches.  Aggravated, I bend down to pick them up, but not before Little Boy makes a bee-line for my scraps.  Luckily, no raisins, but I wasn’t sure if the kid was allergic to peanut butter, and I certainly didn’t want to be the one to send him into anaphylactic shock.  I hurriedly scooped up all the pieces and kind of shooed him away in an assertive manner, afraid I would cause a problem by introducing him to a foreign food.  I look up from my place under the table, on my hands and knees, to find his mother glaring at me and trying to extract her son from the situation.  Dialogue ensues.

Me: (still cleaning)  I’m so sorry!  I didn’t mean to shoo him but I didn’t know if it was alright for him to have peanut butter.

Her: (glaring)  It’s alright for him to have peanut butter.  (Pause for dramatic effect).  But it’s not alright for him to eat off the floor.  (She sweeps away without a backward glance, leaving me confused and awkward under the table).

Scene III.  My face confused and hurt, still crawling on my hands and knees to clean up Em’s mess, who has started shrieking because she has concluded that she is, in fact, still hungry.  Shocker.  Voiceover my inner monologue of unanswerable questions.

What the hell?  Why is she mad?  Doesn’t she realize I was trying to save him from a scene straight out of Pulp Fiction, where she’d have to stab him in the heart with an EpiPen to prevent an inevitable life-threating allergic reaction?  I’m sorry that you thought I would feed your kid food from the floor, but obviously your parenting isn’t perfect either because your kid a) rummages through people’s diaper bags, probably looking for food b) steals things from said diaper bags c) begs for food from strangers.  Maybe you should try feeding him next time instead of trying to melt strangers with your judgmental glare.  And does this mean that she thinks I let my kids eat off the floor?  Maybe having Em around is almost as good as a dog for scrap clean-up, but she doesn’t know that!

Whatever.  Apparently I can’t go to this “family-friendly” place without my posse.  I end up putting my foot directly in my mouth or offending people with my apparently horrific manners.  Sigh…. really, Moms?  Aren’t we all in this together?  Why do I seem to have a maternal kick me sign on my back?  I don’t care because I have a kickass circle of Mommy friends, but I hate feeling like I’m not living up to Mommy expectations!  Come on, I even brought fruit!  And I remembered to wash their hands before we ate!  Isn’t that good enough?

Epilogue:

Before we left, I saw Angry Mom running around looking for Little Boy.  Apparently she had misplaced him.  I tried to help her but only got the Look of Death.  Fine, let him go up to the second floor in the elevator.  See if I care!

Epilogue, Part II:

Ran into them at the farmer’s market later that afternoon.  Was this the Mommy Moment that wouldn’t die!? Wouldn’t have noticed them if Little Boy wasn’t trying to wrestle Em’s ball out of her chubby little hands.  Ha!  He is a little kleptomaniac!  Take that, “Perfect Mom!”

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