Monster

My kid's around here somewhere . . . I think

I suddenly realized a few days ago that I have seemingly become what I always despised: one of those women who lets their children run rampant whilst she is obliviously off in her own world -- chatting on her cell phone, drinking Starbucks, completely turned away from her child.

Okay, I'm not that bad (mostly because I hate Starbucks), but I suspect other people think I'm that bad.


Take the other day, for instance: Mr. C and I were looking through a thrift store, trying to put together Halloween costumes.  Actually, Mr. C was running up and down the aisles while I was trying on shoes that had absolutely nothing to do with Halloween (but they were pretty!  and they cost $3!).

Thrift stores are our new favorite hangout: Mr. C can spend an hour playing with all the used toys while I look around; and if I decide to buy him something, it only costs me a couple of bucks.  Now that's what I call a successful outing!

Anyway, Mr. C is generally pretty well-behaved in stores: he might touch a few breakables, but I'm always hovering in those areas, and I'm quick to steer him towards more appropriate items.  Also, he might run in and out and under the clothing racks, but he never pulls anything off the hanger.  He might pick things off of shelves and carry them around to other parts of the store, but I always make sure we put them back where they belong before we leave.

However, the clerk at this week's thrift store obviously didn't know this.  As Mr. C dragged a pull-toy across the ground and I moved on to looking at pants, I suddenly became aware that the clerk was Hovering.  More-specifically, she seemed to have the sudden need to rearrange whatever bric-a-brac resided in whichever aisle we were in.  When I moved, Mr. C (pushing his toy along the floor and making plenty of noisy sound-effects) trailed after me, and -- about ten seconds later -- the clerk surreptitiously appeared farther down the aisle, seemingly engrossed in lining up a shelf of ceramic unicorns according to size (or maybe ugliness).

My back may have been to Mr. C, but my quick checks on him proved he was being good.  He was just noisy, and perhaps he occasionally accidentally bumped his toy into a shelf.  It all became too much for the clerk, apparently; so, as Mr. C pushed his toy towards the vacant dressing rooms, she sprang into action.

"Put that toy back, please," she commanded, sternly.  "I don't want anyone to trip on it."

As Mr. C dropped his toy and ran to hug my leg, I looked around at the empty store.  I wanted to say, "What's your problem, lady?  There's no one else here, anyway!  And he's not playing with expensive china; it's a 50-cent baby toy!  Furthermore, if you want me to spend $1.88 here, you're going to have to let him play with something while I'm shopping!  And don't judge my mothering while he's doing it; I'm watching him, believe it or not!  We're respectful shoppers!  You think this is misbehaving?  This is downright angelic for a three-year-old!"

But, I knew it wouldn't change a thing.  I know, because I've been in her shoes.  At my last job, my co-workers and I would continually sneer at the gabbing moms who weren't paying attention to their little hellions running wild.  We always clucked about what bad parents they were.  Actually, many of them probably were.  But now I understand that there are times when you don't force your children to be on their absolute best behavior: you'd just end up with a screaming child and no chance to complete your errand.  Now I understand that what looks like neglect is often, actually, strategy.  Now I look at parents who seem to be ignoring their children at the mall and recognize that they're actually brilliantly employing psychological strategies to get their own way.

Actually, I don't really: I totally harshly judge those parents.  But that's just because it makes me feel better.

But, I didn't feel like explaining any of this at the thrift store to ole' Hovercraft.  Instead, I recognized that she was in charge of the contents of the store, and, if she was more comfortable with Mr. C not touching a piece of plastic crap from China, then it was my duty to uphold her wishes.  So I quietly told Mr. C to put the toy back, and we gathered up our things to leave.

Unfortunately, I'd already found the perfect pair of Halloween pants, so the bitch still made her $1.88 sale.