I did the unthinkable last week. I took the kids to Playland at McDonald's.
Maybe that's something that most moms do all the time, but I think I could count on one hand the number of times I've been in one of those things since birthing Cameron nine and a half years ago. I hate Playland. It smells in there. The food is gross. And more importantly, I don't like other people's kids.
Take the little girl in this picture, for example. She stood on the outside of that blue room and alternately licked the Plexiglas window and screamed, "I hate you!" at decibels that made my ears bleed. Over and over and over again, at no one in particular.
Where was her mother, you ask? I'd like to know that, too. I presume she was one of the women dressed in skin-tight jeans, heels, and cashmere sweaters that was camped out at a table in a corner, completely ignoring every child in the joint. Who the hell wears heels to McDonald's? Women who are trying to impress their so-called friends and the teenage guy dipping the fries in hot oil, that's who.
While I was sitting at a table in The Dreaded Playland writing a grocery list and keeping an eye on my kids who were incredibly well behaved, I was tempted to stand up on that table and shout, "Do you all see my kids? They're the ones who are behaving like human beings, not animals. Take notes!"
But I didn't.
After my grocery list was complete, I sat for a few more minutes watching my boys and growing more and more proud of them by the minute. About ten minutes later, (which felt like ten hours), the human Bratz Dolls in the corner all stood up and started calling their kids out of the tubes and tunnels.
Guess what happened?
Nothing.
Their kids ignored them, of course. So the moms took turns hovering at the bottoms of the slides and entrances to the tunnels; grabbing their kids by the ankles whenever they could and dragging them backwards out of the toy. I was impressed that none of them chipped a nail.
But there was that one elusive two year old girl who was just too quick for her mother. So as this girl passed my son, Ethan, near the entrance of the tube, the mother shouted to Ethan, "Can you grab her? Right there! The little girl in the pink! Grab her!"
Um.
Yeah.
She totally did.
Apparently it's my kid's job to corral unruly children of incapable mothers. Part of me wanted to tell that woman to get her butt up that tube and get that kid herself, but I was pretty sure she couldn't bend at the knees in those tight pants, so just watched my seven year old do what that mother could not, thinking that at least Ethan was getting a lesson in respecting adults -- even if the adult was an incompetent stranger.
But that wasn't the end of it. My poor Cameron got snagged in the same kind of issue. A man who, like the woman before, could not get his child to come out of the structure shouted up to Cameron, "Could you please go find a little boy named Carter?"
Yeah.
He totally did.
And I was completely lost for words. Cameron went searching for Carter while Carter's dad stood outside the structure like a big dumb waste of skin waiting for my kid to produce his child.
What has the world come to?
At that point I'd had enough. I called my kids, "Cameron, Ethan, Drew!" and they came running like the Von Trapp kids at the sound of a whistle. Except I didn't need a whistle. And all the way to the car I told my kids that they are never responsible for other people's kids. And while I appreciated that they were respectful to those moron adults, they had my permission to roll their eyes and ignore the next mother who asked them to do her job. My kids were there to have fun. Not babysit.
Ok, maybe I don't dislike other people's kids. I just dislike crappy parenting.
And my kids will probably never see the inside of a McDonald's Playland again. It was so much work this last time, I doubt they'll care.
(This would be my one year old who came when he was called.)
So in case someone who needs some tips stumbles upon this blog, here it is:
If you ever ask another child, especially a complete stranger, to do your dirty work for you, you might be a crappy parent.
