Parenting in public

As promised, something for the larger audience: My experiences in parenting in public.

It’s a scene we’re all familiar with: that of a child having a meltdown in a store. Whether because they’re tired or they’re denied something they want, the cause isn’t really the issue—it’s how the parents react.

In the olden days, of course, or so our parents would tell us, they’d just whomp us on the butt and ‘nuff said. While this may or may not be true, doing so these days will probably get you hauled off to the county jail. (Well… that probably depends on the county you live in.)

Regardless of your feelings on spanking vs. not, how you handle your child during a public bout of bad behavior can be a true test of your mettle. Personally, I think that since becoming a part-time parent last fall, I have developed the vital “you know, I really don’t give a shit what other people think” coat that you need to be a parent-with-boundaries. Witness the evolution...

Stage One, or, “Why did I want to have a kid, exactly?”:

Last fall, I was still only a month or two into part-time-single-parenthood, T just having started commuting to grad school. I was tired and irritable and hadn’t quite learned how to juggle everything on earth yet. (I still haven’t, I just fake it a lot better. And no, not like that, thankyouverymuch.) A had already been sent home for her first ear infection of the season (the previous winter, she was sent home from daycare with NINE ear infections, the poor kid, and she was on antibiotics pretty much the whole winter, which made me a nervous wreck) and her pediatrician had said, “I think we need to consider ear tubes for her.” I bit back my automatic “Ya THINK?” and said that yes, I thought that was a good idea.

Where we live, there is, evidently, and I am not exaggerating, only one ENT specialist in about five counties. We had a work-in appointment at 8 p.m. on a week night and I was stunned ,when A and I got there, to see that there was standing-room only in the waiting room. Hour past bedtime + cranky toddler with ear infection + long wait in a crowded, public place + me flying solo = recipe for disaster.

And A didn’t fail me. I’d planned ahead, of course, brought food and drinks and coloring books and pretty much the kitchen sink. But no. She wanted to play with the toys in the (very) small children’s area. I think they think they’re being helpful by having toys for kids but in reality, they are only fostering trouble because first, there’s the inevitable sharing (or lack thereof) issue with the other kids who are similarly cranky and tired, forcing all parents to watch the area hawkishly, as though they’re refereeing the end of a tied Super Bowl. “Tommy, I said to share!” “A, that’s not nice, give him the truck back.” “Jimbo [no, really], don’t hit her on the head with that book.” And so on.

Then there’s the fact that the play area is, as I said, quite small. Yet because the waiting room was so crowded, I invented the rule that she couldn’t take any toys out of the play area. And lo, thus beginneth an epic struggle of which the sages still sing. Because this was pretty much the loop that played over and over (and over) again:

Me: “A. Keep the truck in the play area.”

A: [nudges the truck to the very edge of the play area]

Me: [edging closer to the play area, arm poised, ready to strike]

A: [gives me a shit-eating grin and pushes the truck about a centimeter out of the area]

Me: [pushing the truck back in] “What did I say?”

A: [knowing full well that my powers, at this moment in time, are limited, abandons the truck and picks up a car, which she starts edging toward the edge of the play area]

Me: [leaning forward—fully aware that all of the other patients are watching with interest—and hissing under my breath] “I am SERIOUS. You STOP that RIGHT NOW or we’re going to the car for a TIME. OUT.”

A: [somehow instinctively knowing that I am going to do no such thing because it already seems like we’ve been here for an eternity and heaven forbid we’re not in here if/when her name is ever called, scoots her bottom and the car over the edge of the play area and smiles at me again] “See the car?”

Me: [temples throbbing] “I am going to kill your father.”

Lather, rinse, and repeat for the next HOUR AND A HALF.

During that horrendous wait, I really did contemplate divorcing Tom for making me do that alone. I was absolutely drained by the time we actually saw the doctor. I think I’d developed a tic at the corner of my mouth.

But, as they say, that which does not destroy you makes you stronger.

Stage Two, or, “Don’t let them have all the fun!”:

On a late Sunday afternoon this spring, T, a napless A, and I went to a local nature area. It’s a big pond with all sorts of wildlife that makes for a nice little outdoor excursion. About halfway through, we ran into several families of Canadian geese, complete with cute little goslings. A and a few other kids also there were fascinated and kept walking closer. Most of the geese, obviously familiar with kids, waddled irritably to the water and paddled a few feet offshore, save for one Momma Goose, who clearly was fed up with kids by this point (and oh, can I relate, honey). She began stalking toward the kids with her mouth open, hissing. The other kids wisely scattered; A, who is either intrepid or determined to someday win the Darwin Award, kept walking toward the hissing, pissed-off goose. At which point I, being a good mommy, intervened, picking her up and explaining, “You can’t do that, the goose is going to bite you.”

But rationale has never stood in the way of a good tantrum. She immediately let loose with a howl that even took the marauding goose aback. “I wanna see the goose!” “Honey, you can’t. It will BITE you.” “I WANNA SEE THE GOOSE!” “Just let her get bitten. That’ll teach her.” “T, I can’t let her get bitten by a goose.” And so on. We walked back to the car, a full-meltdown-mode toddler squirming and crying in my arms. I strapped her into her carseat, my ears ringing at the 80-decibel scream assaulting my ears, and we started on our merry way home. After about 30 seconds, T did the best thing ever: he started mimicking A’s howls. She was startled into silence for a second and then started in again, even louder. At this point, I was laughing and started doing the same as Tom. A yelled, “Stop whining like me!” “Are you the only one allowed to have a temper tantrum?” “YES!” “I don’t think so!”

I can only imagine how we must have looked to other cars, two adults and one child yelling “WAAAAAHHH!” as we whizzed down the road. Still, it mellowed T and I out sufficiently so that we didn’t drop her off at the hospital and ask for a refund, and A eventually got bored enough with it that she stopped and started pointing out things on the side of the road. I’m quite certain that Nanny 9-1-1 would not approve. But damn it, it was funny.

Stage Three, or “Yes, we have reached maximum parent”:

So, we were in Target yesterday, and yes, we were “that” family: the one with the screaming brat in public. Once again, A was napless, once again no big shock and a big factor in the meltdown.

You see, sometimes we’ll let her walk around Target as long as she’s holding hands with one of us. (Otherwise, she’ll take off for parts unknown, and that little bugger is FAST.) She was doing fairly well for awhile but then rounded that mental corner into No Man’s Land and started taking off, running down the aisles away from T and laughing maniacally. So after T tried three times to rein her in, I said, “That’s it” and picked her up and put her back into the cart. She, of course, started screaming “I wanna walk!” as if she were the lead in “Ice Castles.” What made that particular claim even funnier is that she had a diaper rash (okay, that’s not the funny part) and was walking strangely because of it (neither is that), leading T to comment that it looked like she had polio. (Which shouldn’t be funny but was.)

Anyway, T offered to take her to the car but I said, “Nope, she can stick it out and learn to deal with it.” So for a fun 10 minutes, we finished the shopping with A repeatedly yelling “I wanna WALK. I WANNA WALK!” while hapless bystanders avoided us like the plague. At one point, I pushed the cart away so that she was halfway down the (empty) aisle ahead of us while we browsed comforters as though we didn’t even know the child howling angrily at us from the pillow section.

At any rate, she did start to calm down and I had a little “chat” with her, and things were fine. I still didn’t let her down to walk, though. At least my early deafness will be the result of standing firm as opposed to something fun, like partying with rock stars.

So. Those are just a few of our “parenting in public” stories. Anyone else want to share? Oh, and the last thing that I will offer is this: I sure was a better parent before I actually had a child.