Ooh, a sober entry, and SHHHPAF! El Peniso is gone. Sorry peeps, I’ve been busy. The O-Meter will be moved to a museum soon, since I don’t want you to have to wait for it to fall off my page.
And now a question: what up, middle-aged women? Does financial security and/or living a for twenty years longer than me mean that you are suddenly allowed to be up in my biz? Is it just the ones without children? Many middle-aged women in this town have children Frannie’s age, and they sure as Hell don’t have the energy or inclination to criticize me.
I have been kibbitzed-upon (it’s a phrase now) by lone middle-aged women three times this week, and I managed to keep my cool until the third time. I was standing in line at QFC and Mr. Husband and I were about to pay for a couple of quick snacks. Frannie picked up one of those ridiculous balloons that are the same size as she is and are always shaped like a cake or a frog or the giant head of John Travolta. Children cannot resist these, and they always cost like, twelve dollars.
The lady, who was wearing the same pink frosty lipstick that they all are right now, which makes me think it’s some kind of hip single middle-aged lady thing to do this summer, took the balloon’s anchoring clip out of Frannie’s hand and clipped it back to the rack, saying, “I really don’t think you should be playing with this balloon. I think you should put it back now,” very loudly and at us so we would know how ill-behaved our child is.
I walked to Frannie who was all of two feet away from me, and took her hand while giving the lady the fakest smile possible. I said, “We can handle her thanks,” in that way that is Parent for “if you take anything from my child or even talk to her I will shove this tin of Altoids up your nose.” I tugged Fenchie away from her and did not make eye contact again.
I heard the lady indignantly asking the checker as we walked away, “Was I being rude?” Yes, you were, actually.
Before I spawned and inflicted the world with my own worm-cuddling, hamster-bonking, restaurant-dancing snot machine, I hated every kid I saw. Oh great, I thought. Here comes another one. We are at a grocery store where every item containing even trace amounts of sugar is placed at three feet or lower, and the child is touching and moving everything around. Where is this child’s mother? Ah, in line, paying for groceries and not paying attention, and with giant bafs under her eyes to boot. The least that woman could do is take care of her appearance. I really thought like this.
Subtitled, Paybacks Are A Bitch
Now things are different. I have a child who has painted a mirror with her own excrement, and she is actually one of the good ones. No, I’m serious. Most of the time she doesn’t do stuff like that and even gives me hugs without prodding sometimes. But it has given me some perspective so that touching a balloon at a grocery store is no big deal.
I try to keep it in balance, however. Public high crimes include: interfering with other people, in restaurants or elsewhere. I know no one likes their seat kicked or to have noodles thrown in their hair. Yelling for no good reason is not cool. Frannie gets the death look and the pointing finger of doom. It turns out I was born to give the Mom Look.
Unacceptable behaviors also include: abusing a friend’s animals (and my own), and by this I mean poking, tormenting, and riding, not just kicking them or whatever. Breaking or eating things in stores without permission is also out.
This doesn’t mean this isn’t going to happen. God, I wish that was the case. But I will try my hardest to keep up my end of the deal. Which means you keep up yours: quit looking at me like that!
I am sorry I was such a brat before I got knocked up. I am sorry I bratted on about how superior childless people are, and how irritating children are. I forgot that someone used to listen to me scream at them and fixed me deluxe omelettes that I never ate or even looked at. I forgot that I had my butt wiped a million times and never said thank you. None of us were perfect children. I just didn’t realize what kind of hard work it was.
Leave me alone, middle-aged ladies. I am doing the best job I can.
