We have to leave the house everyday. Or the kids drive me crazy. They fight. They bicker. And they run like crazy women through the house. I try to avoid the usual, like fast-food restaurant playlands, but sometimes they are a necessary evil. And with the lure of friends waiting for us there, it is even more tempting.
The morning started off with Emmi letting the pest control guys in while I was changing clothes. I found two strange men in my house after Jill came running in to tell me Emmi answered the door. While they were there, Jill pelted Emmi with quarters over a piggy bank altercation, leaving welts on her chest. I couldn't get out of the house fast enough. Once settled into booths with food and friends, the girls morphed into their alter-egos, The Perfect Children Who Make You Look Like A Liar When You Talk About The Crazy Quarter Throwing Fight We Just Had.
We, at least, are smart about the whole fast food playland thing. We get there right after they stop serving breakfast. Way before the crowds. The kids eat, then pretty much have the playland to themselves for a good hour before the lunch rush comes. Within fifteen minutes, the kids were fed, and it was just us moms left to gossip at the table while the kids played. It was like heaven. Until forty-five minutes quickly passed, and the Vacation Bible School at the church next door let out. The place filled up quickly. Jill and her friend recognized several kids from school, which actually became a plus for a few minutes.
The first altercation happened when a little curly haired girl asked to play with them. The child we were with politely said, "Oh I am sorry, I am already here with someone else. Thank you, though." Polite, right? Curly's mama didn't think so. She pulled all of our children aside, started wagging her finger in their faces, telling them "if you go to a public play place, then you have to play with everyone." Excuse me? First. Back the fuck up out of my kid's face. Second. Lower your damn voice, cause only I get the privilege of screaming at my kid. And third, bitch. Get over it. This is the real fucking world. Not everyone gets included in everything. Our kids were polite, and had she let me handle the situation, I would have made them play with her daughter. Cause that is how I am. But not now. Hell no. Instead? I explain loudly, that other mommies are strangers, too. And we don't talk to strangers, and if "that mommy tries to talk to you again, run, screaming 'STRANGER DANGER!' Cause that's what we do when strangers won't leave us alone."
All went smoothly for a little while longer. Jill, Emmi and the friends are all playing very politely. I am quite proud of them. I just point this out, when a child starts complaining loudly to her mother that "those children in there are mean." Not one child in general. Just all of them. The mother pats her child on the hand. I am waiting for the typical response of, "Honey, I am sure they are not all mean." Or perhaps, "Has one child done something to upset you? Have could you resolve that?" Cause, trust me, every five to seven year old girl insists that every other girl is being mean to them, if, like, they sneeze funny. But what does mama say? "Sweety, those children probably don't have Jesus in their hearts like we do."
I almost choked on my chicken. I mean, I love Jesus as much as the next guy. But, really?
Before I can even begin to make fun of that, Emmi starts climbing the outside of the play structure. I sign for her to get down or she will get time out. Jesus Child, sees me.
"You know sign language!" She is amazed.
"Yes. I sure do. My daughter is deaf." I don't go into the whole thing about CI's and how I took it off on the playland so it wouldn't break because of all of the children. I just leave it at that.
Jesus Child still looks amazed. She looks from me to Emmi to her mom. "Well," she says. "That explains why she is so weird."
Her mom does nothing. Says nothing. Just keeps shoving chicken in her face. So I smile, look at the mom, and say, "I am not mad, but calling someone with a disability 'weird' might be something Jesus would have a problem with."
As I walk off, I hear the mother say, "She doesn't have Jesus in her heart either."
And? My friend? She says loudly, "Oh yeah. You know where you can shove your Jesus?!"
We both started giggling violently. I am pretty sure we are both going to hell.