Let's just cut right to the chase here... I can't bear professional parents. You know the ones who are always interacting with their children and talking in loud animated voices and, Lord help me, clapping? The folks with the everything is a developmentally appropriate toy and the language is clear and determined. The parents who, when their baby says, "eh", respond with, "YES, Jessica-Sarah-Britney, that IS a blue truck! Very clever, darling!" The ones who want you to sit up and take notice of their stellar child rearing.
Hey, I'm a mother too. I have 3 children who, if you ask me, are the most intelligent, gorgeous, charming and interesting of all small people. However, I think the words, "if you ask me" are key here... to me they are, to other folks, they just may not be all that fascinating.
This morning found me in a waiting room, sipping my hot water with lemon detox from yesterday's vodka tonics and reading a back issue of Oprah's magazine... lalala... pleasant quiet time. THEN the door opened, and, in rolled the most enormous double stroller I have ever seen. Ever. It was being pushed by a woman in a matching shorts and tee set where in the shopping world do adult women find these Garanimal ensembles? and followed up by her matchy shorts mother... also in the Grandma version of shorts and applique tee.
They sit themselves down and for the next 10 minutes, I painfully endure the most obnoxious over-mommy-ing and grandma-ing in the known world.
First, we have a rousing rendition of "Wheels on the Bus". Granny is singing at the top of her lungs, and, because she is really involved, she is also working the hand motions. The child, Aidan, who is 2, the middle child of 3 brothers, looks like his daddy, loves bears, and gets along really well with others could care less but his grandmother is going batshit crazy with the doors on the bus and their opening and shutting.
Mom is engaged with the baby for reasons not made clear this kid goes by the name, "Effie" . Effie is 9 months old. She is reading the baby a book and wow, I'm glad I also got to hear all about the naughty Pokey Puppy. I mean, ok, read your kid a book, no need to bring it on like you are auditioning for the lead in community theater. Effie starts to squirm around and so Mom decides to let him do a little crawling... but NOT on his own. MOM also must get down on all fours and support, with her actions, his little motions.
Good Lord. GET YOUR ASS UP WOMAN.
There must be 4 other people in the waiting room, not to mention the staff, and we are all completely paralyzed by these women. You cannot read your outdated magazine because they are loud. You cannot look at them because they will bore you to immediate tears about the kids how the hell do you think I know so much about them? If you are the poor slob who was unlucky enough to walk in and sit down next to Mommy of the Year you got to hear about her pregnancies, deliveries, and just what a flippin' hero of virtue she is. Basically, she is a better mother than you. She is, in fact, a better mother than anyone in the room. No one has ever raised several children before and no one else in the world has babies close in age. She alone is the paragon of motherhood and she is going to ram it down your fucking throat.
So, the baby kid is crawling over my foot, and is drooling on my bare flip-flop shod toes and suddenly, mom is all up in my stuff with, "Oh, Effie, let's see if the pretty lady will let you see her keys!"
Ok, I am a sucker for a compliment, but despite the fabulousness of this pretty lady's key ring, there is no way Effie is having a go with it. I sort of looked at the kid and mumble something about the keys being sharp and Super-Mom tells me it is ok, because children need to learn that some things are not for playing and they will only make that connection if something is uncomfortable.
Fortunately, my name is now called and I beat a quick escape.
Now, don't get me wrong... I like kids and I enjoy their cuteness and their antics and I am by no means suggesting that they don't belong in public doing their little thing... it's just their parents that I often wish would stay home.