 |
| Photo credit: Injury.com |
Or so we thought.
As Gutsy and Spawnling ran amuck in socked feet with their buddies and some other runny-nosed rugrats, a mother came in with two daughters who were about five and seven. Before sending them in to play, she said something about how those people don't supervise their kids, and to stay away from them because their kids are bad. I was only halfway paying attention, so I went back to my coffee and conversation.
What I didn't know at the time - and found out later through chatting with a mom who was sitting closer to the McDonald's mama - was that she was referring to the Middle Eastern parents and their toddler inside the play area. Incidentally, the only parents who were actively supervising the child. The rest of us were drinking coffee and sitting at tables, including McDonald's Mama.
That was strike #1.
My friend and I watched in amazement as the increasingly frazzled McDonald's Mama lost control over her two kids. Long after those people and their anything-but-poor supervision had left, MM's girls made it apparent that white kids can misbehave like the best of them (not that this caucasian chick needed a primer. Hi, have you read my blog?) The two girls climbed on things they weren't supposed to climb on, listened about as well as great-grandpa Morris with his hearing aids off, and made no qualms about letting their mom know that someone's in charge - and it ain't her. Every now and then, my boys - who were disgustingly well-behaved today to the point where I think there might be an well-hidden-yet-expensive repair to make I haven't discovered yet - would shoot me a look of "Is this really happening?"
Sadly, it really was.
McDonald's Mama yelled - a lot. She threatened - a lot. She used the word ass in the middle of the playroom - often. And it wasn't in a context I might overlook, like, "I feel like ass." Instead, she used it in much more colourful ways, such as, "Daughter #1, you're being a pain in the ass," and, "I'm going to tan your ass if you don't watch it!"
Add in several angry phone calls to some undisclosed person she felt the need to yell and swear at, and you have yourself some serious shock and awe from the other restaurant patrons.
Now, my mother always taught me that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover and that it's good to give people the benefit of the doubt. So, while the other parents were shaking their heads and quietly tsk-tsking, I tried to remind myself that everyone has a story, and she likely has one that is very hard and sad. To test this theory out and prevent a visit from the ever-waiting Judgmental Maven, I took a deep breath in between her slide-side rantings, and tried to have a conversation with her. Call it "reaching out." I'm nice like that.
In about 30 seconds, I found out that she lives on the outskirts of town, is a single mom to three, has a fourteen-year-old with a mental illness, has no money and doesn't know how they're going to eat tomorrow, let alone have a Christmas. She told me no one will help her and that she's all alone. A heartbreaking story, and about what I expected. People who aren't stressed to their limit don't yell at their kids to that extent. They think twice before they act, especially in public.
When people can do better, they will do better. That's what I believe; what I have to believe. It's my faith in humanity that gets me up in the morning.
Insightful, I know. It's a talent.
However.
There are times when, try as I might, my belief in the greater good can't dig deep enough to extract a single positive quality from someone. Serial killers and pedophiles are obvious examples, of course. But there are others who catch me by surprise, like the McDonald's Mom I tried so hard to understand and empathize with.
I wasn't ready to give up just yet. I dug my heels in, and reached down - way, way down - to find something good. There had to be something there, something... right?
Her younger daughter hurt herself on the slide. She had collided with another child in the increasingly busy Playland, and was holding her nose. Her mom went in, picked her up, checked for blood. There we go. There was the good!
"What did I fucking tell you?!" she hollered as she burst out of the play area with her sobbing child in her arms. She plonked her daughter on the bench. "If you just listened to mommy and got ready to go when I told you, this wouldn't have happened. See? See what you did?"
Strike 2. Keep digging, Maven. Keep digging. Here, try a bigger shovel.
Look: I've been stressed before. Very, very stressed. And I've lost my shit before - sometimes in places I wish I hadn't. I've even gotten upset at one of the gremlins when they've hurt themselves doing something I explicitly told them not to do.
But.
I have never sworn at my child because he hurt himself as a result of playing somewhere I'm allowing him to play by not putting my foot down. Saying, "we need to go" and "two more minutes. I'm serious this time!" over and over will not get them out the door if I don't actually decide we need to leave. It's not her fault her mom was too busy fighting with someone by phone, and huffing and puffing back and forth from the playroom muttering (loudly) under her breath that, "mommy's going to fucking lose it soon, I tell ya! I'm pissed!"
Things got increasingly volatile. Eventually, my friend and I had to get our kids out of there. They were getting scared, and I was getting worried that I might start having words with this woman whom I had come to judge. I tried not to. I really did. I guess I'm not quite as perfect as I thought I was.
The coup de grace was when she started talking to an elderly couple behind us about how the "damn immies" come to this country and get on welfare and get subsidized housing and drive $100,000 vehicles while the white folks get nuthin'.
Okay, enough. Strike 3. Now Maven's angry. I have no tolerance for stupidity.
I had a "you are a douche" card in my hand, folks. I really did. At that point, nobody was more worthy of one. I was ready to pounce on this ignorant woman and get all up in her grill. I wanted to tell her off so badly--
--until I looked down, and saw my worried kids, and knew that I needed to put them first. If I caused a scene and put my anger before their wellbeing, I wouldn't be any better than she is with her own kids. I wouldn't be setting a good example, just as she's not setting one by being a racist idiot. I would teach her nothing, and she would probably take it out on her daughters after I left. So I took a deep breath, put my coat on, and walked out with my boys in hand.
I wanted to call someone, but knew there was nothing I could do. Technically, she's not doing anything wrong. She said she was bussing it, so I couldn't get a license plate number. And what was I supposed to say to the cops? "There's a woman who isn't quite abusing her kids at McDonald's, and I don't know her name, so hurry up and watch her not break the law before she leaves"? My hands were frustratingly tied.
Gutsy and Spawnling were so good that I took them to see a movie to lighten the mood. While in the theatre's bathroom, I caught a single piece of graffiti penned on the stall door:
"You are blessed."
Yes. Yes, I am. I am blessed because I was raised to value all people, and celebrate our differences.
I am blessed with an open mind that I can then pass on to my kids, so that they don't end up being the racist/sexist/homophobic idiots of tomorrow.
I am blessed to have been poor and gone without food and safe shelter for a time, so that I know that life can be hard. I've walked the welfare lines, I've lived with cockroaches, I've begged for money. But I've also been fortunate enough to not have been a mother at that time, because I can't imagine how it must feel to watch your babies go hungry.
I am blessed with new insight in my thirties: people and situations are not black and white. I can feel sorry for a socially awkward, obviously overwhelmed single mother, but I don't have to forgive everything she does because of her circumstances. I also know there is a difference between income and class, and this mother's financial situation does not mean she has to act the way she does.
I am blessed to live a privileged life of sorts, in a safe neighbourhood, in a cozy home, with a vehicle to get around, and food in our bellies.
I am blessed to know love, so that I can raise my children with love.
I am blessed.
Thank you, bathroom stall.