As we, erm, ellipticized side by side, I tried to have empathy for her. I tried to put myself in her shoes. I tried to tell myself that she needed a break, and that an hour at the Y might be the only break she could get from her hellions all day long. I tried to be understanding. I tried to feel sympathy. I tried to feel pity. I tried y’all, I swear I did.
But I couldn’t.
Maybe it was that bland smile she wears throughout the chaos. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m just well enough acquainted with her to know that she could easily afford to hire a private sitter to watch her children rather than foisting them off onto overworked nursery employees and putting other kids at risk. The thing is, if she had seemed frazzled, apologetic, or in desperate need of an hour to herself, I think I would have felt at least a pang of pity. But the “eat shit” grin she always wore got to me, particularly when I saw it after learning that her son had pushed my daughter. It pissed me off.
“I have a right, too, you know” I wanted to tell her. “I have a right to bring my kid to the nursery and not worry that your kid is going to hurt her. And what about the nursery workers? They have fifteen other kids to watch, including mine! It’s not fair to make them spend the entire time refereeing your older son and talking your younger one down from a tantrum!”
I tell you this not to send you into a cold, finger-pointing fury, but because this is a dilemma that I’m sure lots of you have dealt with on one end of things or another. I think of my friend who teaches Sunday School. For a while, a boy was put in her class who was so out-of-control that she literally couldn’t teach the lesson if he showed up. Instead, she spent the entire time trying to placate him and keep him from hurting himself or someone else. His parents acted completely oblivious and since she was simply volunteering her time, she didn’t feel comfortable confronting them. Most of us wouldn’t. I’d never in a million years say something directly to Gym Mom, unless I were to catch her son in the act doing something to my daughter, and even then, I’d have a hard time with it. After all, it’s un-P.C. to confront another parent. It’s sort of trashy.
But where do we draw the line?
