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I know that I’m touchy about certain aspects of parenting and, more specifically, my parenting. I realize that my emotions are on overdrive this weekend as my birth daughter Munchkin’s birthday is on Sunday. I’m touchy, moody and will likely dissolve into a puddle of tears and/or a screaming maniac if you look at me sideways. Maybe even if you look at me directly. Even when Munchkin’s birthday is not on the immediate horizon, I’m still kind of touchy about my parenting. As I was once made to believe that I wasn’t good enough to parent, I have this overzealous need to prove that I am, in fact, The Best Parent Alive. At All Times. Ever.
This may also have something to do with my perfectionist personality. Double whammy on the issues! I never do things halfway, do I?
Perfectionism aside, you can insult me about my writing, my photography, my crazy hair, the fact that I always wear green or just about anything under the sun, and I’ll merely rant about you to my husband. If you insult my parenting, or, rather, if I even think you are insulting my parenting, all bets are off. When I say all bets are off, I mean that I’m going to go out to my vehicle and cry. So, really, I wouldn’t worry too much about yourself. I have no bite.
It happened today at the checkout while running errands with my younger son. It’s cold out right now. It hit 26 degrees just a few minutes ago and that’s a heatwave. My son and I were bundled in our coats, and he still had his very adorable knit hat atop his head. As I swiped my card and entered numbers without my gloves on because I can’t press numbers on a touch screen pad with gloves on, the cashier says to LittleBrother in a sing-songy, judgmental voice, “Where’s your gloves, little buddy? It’s too cold for you to be out without gloves on.”
I paused. I looked across the counter. I had my Mama Bear Eyes blazing and my Serious Voice on.
“They’re in his pocket.”
I said nothing more. I said nothing of how he hates gloves, mittens or anything that covers his hands. I said nothing of how it is a fight but we still put them on, screaming and wailing the whole time. (Him, not us. Most of the time.) I said nothing of how I take them off when we get in somewhere warm so he doesn’t have something to whine and fuss about as we make our way through the store because I, unlike some people, don’t like to bug others in stores. Or checkout lines. You know. I did, and I mean I really did want to say, “His gloves must be wherever you left your manners today.” But I didn’t.
Because I felt judged.
I felt that this woman was judging me as an unfit mother for taking my son out in the cold weather without gloves. I wanted to crawl under a rock with my son, with gloves on, and just cry for awhile. I didn’t, as there are very rarely large rocks at the end of checkout counters. I finished the transaction, stood too long at the end of the aisle and loudly talked with my son as I put his gloves on his poor, pitiful, but not even remotely cold little hands. I may have shot a smug look in the direction of the cashier as I walked away.
But I cried when I got out to the vehicle.
There are things in life that I don’t care if I’m good at or, even maybe more importantly, things that I don’t care if the rest of the world doesn’t know or think I’m good at. Parenting is not one of those things. While I admit my faults (remember me talking about yelling too much?), I really can’t handle passing judgment. It’s even worse if it is judgment from someone within my family or friend circle, but passing judgment still hurts. I’ve worked very hard on trying not to be a helicopter parent at the playground or elsewhere, knowing that my issues with adoption often lead me to overprotectiveness. At the same time, while I’m forcing myself to sit still at the playground and let them try
