Some people's kids

When Dirk and I were first married I worked at a store which sold only white clothing; wedding dresses, blessing dresses, etc. For the most part, it was a peaceful job. The work environment was quiet and low-stress. Some days, no customers would come in and I would lock the doors (with the owner's permission, of course) and do inventory or steam dresses. My peaceful state was disrupted, however, any time a parent entered the store with a child under the age of ten. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I began to imagine little jam hands grabbing at the row of gleaming, perfectly hung and steamed white dresses. At the time, I had no children of my own, and I was convinced that every child of elementary school age or younger had a coating of jam or jelly, or some sticky, destructive substance on their fingers at any given moment. While trying to keep an entire wardrobe of white in pristine condition, I just had to assume that any child who entered the store had jam hands and a snot nose, which they would undoubtedly proceed to wipe all over the clothing as soon as they entered. Apparently, their mothers did not share this concern. These women would walk in, take a deep breath, and walk across the room to the wall of dresses, their eyes straight ahead, oblivious to little Billy, who was trying to climb into the antique cradle used to display baby blessing clothes. Then would come the dilemma of: "Do I help this woman find a dress, or stop her child from single handedly destroying everything else in the store?" Usually, I would walk over to the miscreant who was climbing on the antique furniture, climbing on the dresses, wiping their hands on the dresses, pulling tape out of the cash register, or blowing raspberries on the full length mirror, and try to calmly suggest ( in a voice loud enough that mommy could hear), that perhaps their behavior was not appropriate. Sometimes, the menace's mother would be jilted out of her shopping daze long enough to feign a look of horror, as if her child had never before behaved in such a manner. "Billy! What's gotten into you! We're not in a zoo!" I would then proceed to help her choose a dress as Billy continued to tear the store apart. At least these mothers cared enough to pretend to discipline their child. There were some mothers who made no pretense of discipline . They should have paid me ten bucks as they came in the door for watching their rugrat while they perused. There were days when several moms with tots would raid the shop. During the course of these days, I would occasionally retreat to the back room, take a deep breath, roll my eyes, and think, "Some people's kids!!!" Often this thought was followed by, "My kids will never behave that way!" I have since learned that these are bitter words to swallow. I should know, because I have had to eat them on several occasions.

Fast forward nine years......I am now the proud mommy of three little rugrats.....three sets of jam hands. I have since learned that children are quite capable of using soap and water, and that their hands are not always covered in sticky substances of an unknown origin. I have also on occasion been the oblivious mom of the cradle climber. When shopping with three children, there is no way to keep both eyes on all three of them at the same time......three kids, two eyes.....you do the math. Sure, so one of them is still immobile. This does not mean that he is incapable of hurling his binky across the store. I most often go shopping at night. This way, I can actually focus on what I am buying, instead of throwing items that resemble what I think I may need into the cart as quickly as humanly possible before any of my children become too hungry, thirsty, or turn into the Tasmanian Devil. How I wish I could take back every "my kids will never....." thought I ever had! My oldest, Morgan, is the kind of child that I can safely bring into a store full of white dresses with no worries. She is a perfectionist, not to mention, I'm pretty sure she expelled all of her energy to misbehave as an infant by crying twenty hours a day. My second, on the other hand, can occasionally make the cradle climbing Billy's look saintly. I can tell him five times in a row not to stand on the bench at a restaurant. I look away for two seconds to order my food, and he is doing a headstand on the bench, kicking the guy behind him in the head. O.K.......so maybe it's not that bad, but the many, "my kid will nevers....." I have eaten have been a direct result of things he has done. Sometimes it seems there is a complete disconnect between what I try to teach him at home, and the way he behaves in public. And I can always tell, by the look of understanding empathy, or the look of total disdain, which onlookers witnessing my son's misbehavior have had Hyrum's of their own and which are thinking, "my kids will never......" After eating my fair share of humble pie, I have become much more empathetic to the seemingly oblivious mother of the possessed child screaming in the supermarket. This is because I now understand that her threats, bribes, "mad mom" looks, hugs, and pleading have all failed and she still needs to buy ingredients for dinner. I don't even turn around to look when I hear a kid throwing a tantrum in church. I just pretend I can't hear the ear-shattering screeching overpowering the dulcet sounds coming from the pulpit. And when I receive looks of open disdain, I am able to let it roll off my back, understanding that the look giver has had all Morgan's, or that they have not yet been a guardian of jam-handed miscreants and are still in the "my kid will never" phase of life.

I can't recall many specific occurrences which elicited a "my kid will never" in my pre-child days. But I can very clearly recall one "I will never." I was engaged to Dirk at the time. I was shopping at the mall one day, when a busy mom walked past me, trailed by an out of breath toddler. As they hurried by, the little boy said, "Mommy, you're my best friend." My heart melted, and then sank as I realized this mother had not even heard her son's tender declaration. Oh, she had pretended to hear, with the typical, "Yes, Billy" head nod. But she didn't hear. In that moment, I resolved that I would never be so caught up in anything that I would miss my child telling me I was their best friend. Too many times, I have nodded my head distractedly, more focused on my task of the moment than on what my child has been trying to tell me. But, every now and then, I remember the red-cheeked boy in the mall. I turn away from whatever I am doing, look directly at my child, and really listen to what they are saying. I may not always be able to control my children's behavior, despite every attempt to do so. But, I can control my reaction. My son may drive me to drink some days. But when he runs to me across the scuff-marked floor with peanut butter covering his face and permanent marker up to his elbows, I will be waiting with open arms and an open heart for the "I love you mommy."