Judge Not

Yesterday, I was That Mother.

We had driven to a new restaurant for Father's Day brunch. It was blazing hot outside and two-year-old Bruiser was in a majorly sour mood. Ordinarily, I bring a plastic baggie full of race cars for him to play with at the table until his food arrives, and everything is fine and dandy.

But on this day, it was immediately apparent that the race cars weren't going to cut it. As soon as I put them out for him, he pushed them away impatiently.

"Want out," he said fussily, straining in his highchair.

"No, Bruiser," I said quietly.

"Want! Out!" he insisted.

"No."

That's when the screaming began.

Bruiser howled and moaned and shrieked and sobbed. Fortunately, live music was playing in front of us, effectively drowning him out. I opted to ignore him, hoping that if he didn't get the attention he was seeking, he'd give up the tantrum.

You should have seen the stares I got for that. What kind of mom sits impassively while her little son is clearly in anguish?

Me. That's who.

Finally, he calmed down and played with his toys for a few minutes. Every so often, though, he'd remember that he didn't want to be there, and would start howling again. It didn't help matters that he hadn't had anything to eat or drink for hours, yet he was refusing everything I offered him to put in his mouth.

After thirty minutes of this, I finally decided to let him get out of his highchair. He ran to the back of the restaurant. It was small and casual and I could see where he was going, so I let him run. He made the rounds, smiling and waving at diners, while I kept an eye on him and tried to get in a few bites of my brunch.

He especially liked an older man sitting at a table with his family, and proceeded to spend the rest of the meal attempting to charm the guy who, fortunately, was a good sport. The waiters also were sympathetic, good-naturedly stopping short and tousling Bruiser's hair when he would run in front of them.

But yeah. A big part of me was mortified. I was exactly the parent I generally despise- the one who lets her kids run all over the dang restaurant, ignores them when they cry, and doesn't take them out when they throw a tantrum.

I was the parent those angry people from the Childfree Movement are always referring to, the one who, according to them, has no business taking my children to a restaurant in the first place. And I might as well own my "That Mother" status here and now.

Because looking back, I wouldn't have done anything differently.

Bruiser is generally pretty easy in public- except when he's not. And those "not" times make me reassess everything I ever thought I knew about being a mom. He has provided me with more than a few occasions in which I've thought I'd die from embarrassment under the icy glares I've received from strangers.

But I am coming to terms with that kind of unspoken criticism. And lately, I've found myself staring back at them unapologetically, as I've struggled to get Bruiser into his stroller or to pick him up, limp and screaming from the ground. How dare you? I think to myself, particularly when the glarer is a parent. Don't even pretend like you haven't been in this position yourself.

And I have to wonder in the back of my mind if this is simply payback for the times that I was the one judging.

Now that I'm a mom, the saying, "The older I get, the less I know," has never seemed more appropriate.