I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
January 2, 2007
>“Stephen hit someone today,” the nursery worker at the Y announced to the mother ahead of me. Both of us were waiting to collect our kids. Instinctively, I stiffened. Had the little jerk hit Punky? I craned my neck, trying to see her in the playroom behind the two women.
“I tried to put him in time-out,” the worker continued, “but he wouldn’t stay there.”
“Oh,” Stephen’s mom said vaguely. “I’ll have to talk to him about that later.”
Meanwhile, Punky spotted me and came running out of the room. “Hi, Mommy!” she shouted, hugging my knees.
“Did you have fun?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she shouted, “but Stephen pushed me!”
Stephen and his mother were standing right beside us. “Stephen pushed you?” I said loudly. “That’s awful!” Stephen’s mother feigned oblivion.
“Yeah,” she said, “But I told the teacher.”
“Good!” I practically shouted. “Because it is not okay for kids to push you! Or hit you! Pushing and hitting are very, very bad! And wrong! ”
“Gah!” I said to Hubs moments later after telling him what had happened in the nursery. “His mother just stood there and didn’t say a word! I know preschoolers are going to hit and push, but I’d like to think that I’d at least say something to another mom if she were standing there and knew that Punky had hit her kid! You know, she couldn’t have cared less!”
Our long history together tells me that some of you will wag your figurative fingers at me and tell me that this mother may have had extenuating circumstances and I should have been more understanding. Her kid might be a total terror or she might be going through a divorce or something like that. But indulge me here… Perhaps she’s just like, well, a lot of other parents I come across these days. Perhaps she is so convinced that her child is the smartest and handsomest and all-around greatest kid out there that she acts as if he literally can do no wrong. And when he’s caught in the act of misbehaving, like today? She simply acts like it didn’t happen. Apologizing or offering an explanation to me would be admitting that her perfect angel is flawed. And that’s just not possible.
The thing is, I understand how these parents feel. I mean, I’m totally convinced that Punky is the most amazing, charming, beautiful three-year-old in the whole world. Really, I am. And my teenagers are way smarter and prettier and have more on the ball than any other kids their age that I know. And Bruiser? Well, he’s absolutely adorable and sweet as candy and even when he cries, no one, NO ONE, is cuter.
But I caught on pretty early that just about every other mother feels the same way about her kids, and that it’s smart to treat that mom and child accordingly. So yes, with that said, I think Stephen’s mother absolutely should have said something, knowing that as far as I was concerned, her son pushed the most amazing, charming, beautiful three-year-old in the whole world. I’m pretty sure she would have wanted the exact same thing from me had my child hit Stephen.
As Hubs and I left the Y, Stephen raced past us through the sliding glass doors.
“You know, one of us probably should have kicked him just now,” Hubs said. “That would have evened the score.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?!” I said, slapping my forehead.
“Oh well. There’s always next time.”
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