How nasty do you have to be to your kids before they won’t tell you when your pants are falling down in a supermarket parking lot?

[I’ve tried not use any judgmental wording here and not to frame this within my own point of view on the matter, but that’s never easy to do in communicating, so please bear with me.]

She appeared to be about forty, the lady with the droopy pant legs. I notice pant legs when they puddle around feet because it always looks to me like the person is growing up through the ground, forcing his or her way out of the folds of the earth. The faces of the children were fresher versions of her, fluffier, without that slight pinch in the face that comes with age.

She sounded like static when a radio station isn’t tuned in well…or when a TV channel isn’t transmitting enough of a signal to get the full audio track. Each word from her mouth was separate: “Put. That. Bag. Back. In. The. Cart. Now! How. Stupid. ARE. You???”

One of her four ducklings flinched at each word.

“Give. Me. That!!!” She took something small from the largest child, who looked like he was about ten years old. The others appeared younger; they were certainly smaller. He frowned and swatted the air where she had been, as she turned away.

I was behind them in the supermarket before they checked out and I was still behind them leaving the store. In the store children stayed close to her and moved with her steps. They didn’t chat or giggle or do the things that I frequently see children do in stores. She said what there was to be said, loudly and with an edge that cut even me. And I wasn’t the target.

“Stop. Doing. That. HOW DUMB DO YOU HAVE TO BE TO PUT YOUR HAND IN THERE??? IT’S DIRTY!!!!!! DON’T YOU DARE GET THAT DIRT ON YOUR CLOTHES!!!”

And so on…

She never touched them, never hit them or hugged them. She never asked them questions or taught them anything. There was no give-and-take except the sound of her voice and the looks on their faces.

Each of the children had the same expression: waiting. Expectation? Dread? Not eagerness.

By the time we were all in the parking lot the children were drifting away from her and getting closer to their car. As she walked in front of me I could see her pant legs fall into bigger folds. She kept walking, pushing her cart. Her sweatshirt came to the top of her hips; the waistband of her pants was abandoning it quickly and moving south. The two little ones watched her as she got closer to them. They looked at each other. As I passed by I heard them giggle quietly.

When I turned to open my car door I saw her, this woman, this fellow human being, standing at her car door holding a grocery bag, with her sweatpants on the ground. They’d slipped down and she didn’t seem to know.

I didn’t want to tell her. Neither, it seemed, did her kids. We all looked away.

Then I decided that someone really ought to and walked closer, just in time to hear: “Mind. Your. Own. G-damn f#%^ing business, you little s$@t!!”

Her littlest one stared up at her with a face full of storm clouds before he started to cry. The others climbed into the car and the woman looked back at me.

“What are YOU looking at??”

I think my face must have looked like thunder and lightning as well, because she pulled her pants back up, pushed the shopping cart into the nearest cart corral, and walked back to her car.

I made sure my own pants weren’t falling down, and then I went home.

Why is it so difficult for people too understand these three little words???

“I can’t afford it.”

How many times have I said that? How many times have I explained why?
Hundreds?
Thousands?
ENOUGH?

Why is it that whenever I tell you something that’s going on my life that’s a problem, your response is to get it fixed or buy a new one? You KNOW I can’t afford it!
All I want is empathetic recognition that I’m having a problem. That’s all!

Now I have to tell you AGAIN that I can’t afford it.
Now I have to explain to you AGAIN why I can’t afford it.

Either that, or I remove another topic from our list of permissible discussion items.
But I don’t know if our relationship can afford it.

Mother’s Day Rant: I AM NOT YOUR MOTHER!

Or anyone else’s. So stop wishing me Happy Mother’s Day!

When you do that, you dilute the honor of the thing: mothers do a difficult job. I certainly wouldn’t want to do it. If you say “Happy Mother’s Day” to everyone, what’s the point?

And then there’s biology. Wishing a 10-year old girl Happy Mother’s Day makes little sense.

And what about those people who just “lost” babies, children? Maybe the mother isn’t a mother anymore, and is devastated? And what about the people who’ve recently “lost” a mother? Can you imagine the pain you cause?

I don’t care about your intentions – I don’t care that the store you work for MAKES you do it. Stop it. Now.

Don’t wish me or anyone BUT YOUR OWN MOTHER  a “Happy Mother’s Day.”  And OK, if your Mom’s not around or if you have a near-Mother, or stepmother, or whatever, fine. Wish them anything you want.

But remember: I am not your mother.