Oh, now don’t be hatin’, but children should be seen and not heard. This is especially true in restaurants, movie theaters, supermarkets, libraries– any and all public places where people are paying for the privilege to eat, watch a movie, enjoy a leisurely read or are studying in public libraries (yes we do pay for this privilege with our tax dollars).
For you parents who blithely move about the country under the mistaken belief that your child’s protracted shrieks, screams, outcries, growls, grunts, yips, squeals, yells and all manner of vocalizations are just too adorable, I’m here to lovingly tell you– they’re not.
What they are is inconsiderate, startling, unpleasant, unwelcomed, alarming, distracting and annoying. They are way, way, way on the negative side of the spectrum of cute and adorable; nowhere near within range. The longer you allow the outburst to go on, the more my blood begins to boil. One of us needs to be put out of our misery.
Only it ain’t gonna be me.
Now this is the part where you ever so slightly shrug your shoulders and then sheepishly direct one of those “Oh well, nothing we can do about it” glances towards me that’s supposed to make everything wholly tolerable then.
Oh, oh, of course. That’s your child. Everybody and their mother knows they’re not responsible for their behavior, silly me. Let me just digest my food. After all, what can these hapless parent(s), grown adults with jobs, maybe even piloting our airplanes, possibly do to control their own kids? How stupid of me. You’re right. Let me just pay for my meal and leave. Heaven forbid I should be the nasty old curmudgeon who ruins your dining experience this evening.
Not!
Oh, and I especially love when your kids are running amuck about the place, hiding under tables, teetering and tottering about with grown folk tripping over themselves trying not to trip over them, or having to stand and wait while walking behind them, or narrowly avoiding nearly braining them when a door opens and oops– why there’s little Austin or Emily obliviously running by with you cooing and smiling and coaching ten feet away.
My most favorite thing is when you allow your kid to approach our table, mid-fork to mouth, and just stand and stare while you sit ten feet away. After all, your child is just too adorable and I’m the adult so let me just bear this uninvited, unwelcomed, insufferable alien landing. “If you can’t fix it, you gotta stand it*,” right?
Wrong!
I was eighteen years a single mom. My only child is now 24 years old. I received a whoppin’ $25.00 a week in child support. He said he couldn’t “be involved in this.” I said ‘I ain’t mad at’cha.’ I didn’t win the love lottery. What’s the use in crying? But I chose to continue with the pregnancy. I could not wrap my brain or my gut around my “choices” so when that airplane landed on the runway of my life I knew I just needed to decide. I began to pilot that plane and lift it off the ground. I experienced turbulence during that eighteen year journey. I had no encouragement, no help, no support from family. There was not even proximity. I found it difficult to start and sustain friendships. I had no circle.
I did have a few really nice, but sadly transient experiences with some really great people who wandered in and out of my life during my 18 year journey. One was a lovely young man named David. At one time, I worked three jobs to support myself and my then nine month old son. I worked full time for a group insurance company, weekends during the day at Fotomat, and then four week nights and every weekend at night at a basic cable network operations facility on Long Island. That’s where I met David, a tall, gangly, 28 year old with a thick, wavy helmet of light brown hair. He was thin with a long swan-like neck and a giant Adam’s apple protruding from within it. He had a deep, breathy, velvety smooth voice and a low, rapid-fire, staccato giggle that makes me smile as I think of it.
The year was 1984 and David was in the closet. He was gay, and I was his fag-hag. I was his confidant, his friend, his cover. Whenever there was a company function, we went together. We spent a lot of time together outside of work. He was a delight with my son. He was one of the dearest, most warm-hearted people I have ever known in my adult life.
The guys at the facility suspected he was gay, but I could never figure out how. I had no idea he was gay until he told me, and while I never witnessed David being mistreated, or shamed or belittled or anything, when he told me what he was experiencing there, I believed him. David decided he needed to move to San Francisco. Within six months, he was gone. I received one phone call, but then I myself moved and we lost touch. I never saw nor heard from him again.
Being a single parent, even under the best circumstances is 100% wretched and 100% joy; 100% giving and 100% receiving; 100% blessing, 100% malediction. It’s all-in, baby, and women who characterize the SP life as 50-50 are already standing 100% behind the eight ball. SP is more than just a part of your life– It’s your entire life but only for a finite and relatively brief period of time.
In my case, the “parenting” phase was complete by the time my son was 16. By then, not only did he know what the expectations were, he was mastering them. He had his baseball league. He worked part time for the Seattle Mariners. He was making responsible choices. He was never in trouble at school or with the law. I was only providing for him materially and guiding him. I was just his mother– not a parent.
Now I realize some of you appear not to have it as I did. From conception (yes, we knew right then and there we were pregnant) to birth (I was in labor only two hours, natural birth, no drugs) I won the labor and childbirth lottery. From blastocyst to this very day, my boy is my joy. How did this happen? I was not afraid to discipline him. I didn’t fear damaging his self-esteem or hurting his fragile feelings, and you know what..? It didn’t rock my world when he hurt mine. The expectations I had for him were high and so were my standards and these were never compromised.
My son was not my “little man” or the “man of the house” or my “Boo.” He was never my friend, my peer or my confidant. I didn’t stop being an adult so I could be on his level. He had enough on his plate just being my son and I had all I could handle just being the best mom I knew how to be. To this day, I think my son would rather drive steel pins through his eyes than disappoint me and he knows I feel exactly the same towards him.
I did not tolerate my son behaving badly in public or being disrespectful, rude or discourteous to grown folk. I did this by letting him see my disappointment on those occasions he indulged those behaviors, and by showing him my approval when he didn’t. Unwanted behaviors prompted expressions of disappointment and were frowned upon. Desired behaviors were approved and smiled upon. Literally. And you have to stand your ground and stay the course, even when it’s especially hard and you are especially exhausted.
I suspect this is the hardest part of parenting for many. It’s the part that’s often replete with unpleasantness. My experience has shown me that parents who fear disciplining their children most are the ones most likely to verbally, physically and emotionally abandon self-control, and they know this about themselves. The rest of us may have steelier nerves or use what Lee and Marlene Canter called “the broken record” technique, or we tend to be more alert, conscientious and considerate when we are in public with our children. I know I certainly was.
More than anything in the whole, wide world, your child wants to please you, but you have to teach them how. They’re depending on you to do that. Your child does not want to alienate your affections. They want your approval, acceptance and attention. Acting out behaviors are born out of a mistaken belief that this is how to succeed in getting your approval, acceptance and attention. Disciplining your child guarantees they’ll always be able to do just that. Maybe then I can enjoy my dinner and maybe truly see your Austin or Emily is just too cute.
*Ennis Del Mar, Brokeback Mountain | 2005 |
