Friday, August 9, 2019

Throwing Stones At Strangers

It looks lonely. I'm sad I didn't tell my son to use it.
But his project had already been ruined.
He might not have wanted to go anyway.
"Is this one yours? Somebody needs to teach her about sharing."
They were words I couldn't handle right then. Words that broke me. Again. Words that flew through my ears and pierced my brain like nails.

I said nothing to the woman. Maybe I should have. No. It's good I stayed silent towards her. But I can't let her statement go unanswered. She'll never see this, but I can still reply.

You know you could have taken your kid to the identical, and completely unoccupied, light board directly across from the one my son was already using, right?
Maybe your own child should be taught to ask before starting in on a project when another child is already there, and already in the middle of something, waiting a few minutes (patiently--which is so hard for him) for his brother to return and continue creating with him.
It may be hard to fathom, but it is also completely possible for you to keep your sarcastic comments inside your own head instead of spitting them at stranger who might already be going through a hard time in general, and a very difficult day specifically.
Someone could teach your daughter to show compassion to someone who might not want to share right now, or someone who has difficulty processing the world like other kids do; someone could even teach her to walk away if there is a situation or a person she doesn't like-instead of being confrontational and snide.
Yes, my son could have handled the situation differently. Better. He could have not blocked the peg pieces with this body. He could have politely said, "My brother and I are working on something here. Could you please wait until we are done to take a turn?" (Or would that still be considered rude by you? Something that should be "taught out of him?") He could have welcomed the random new kid to join him. Or he could have abandoned his own ideas, and given all the pieces to her. Is that what you meant when you said sharing?

The Wonderful Teacher and Mother, Miss B?
If I had been there with my son... (I wasn't. I was selfishly trying to take a brief break and sitting on a bench a few feet away.) But if I had been there, and our roles had been reversed, I would have taught my son to share--with the person who was there first. Just like I had been trying to break through and make him understand his whole life. (Ask permission, or ask to be next. PLEASE don't just jump into something someone else is already doing, sweetie. You are going to make someone sad or mad.) At least four specific situations that day already. Situations with other parents and kids--some of them also saying (not-quite-as) rude things and shooting me dirty looks. Apologies from me. Apologies from my son. Trying to avoid eye contact. Situations making me feel terrible and worthless and inept before we even met you and your lovely family. Each one was followed by me explaining in every way I knew, any way I thought he might start to understand: "If someone is using a toy, wait for them to finish. Wait for your turn."
But you didn't see any of that. You didn't care. You are the Mother of Mothers, all-knowing, judge and jury. And you decided to throw a rock through the fragile bubble of calm sanity I had been trying to experience while my kids and I were three of only a few people in that room inside an otherwise bustling museum.
I knew I only had a few minutes before more people would enter that room. So I savored sitting and breathing while I didn't have to worry and chase and helicopter over my little boy to be sure he didn't interrupt someone else's play, or learning, or experience.
At a bit before 12:30 in the afternoon, you walked into the room and over to the exact toy where my son was playing. And then you aimed your dagger eyes at me. Our gazes met. (Couldn't you see the exasperation and exhaustion already on my face?) And then you said your hateful, hurtful lines.
Did you read his shirt, know he was a boy, and call him a girl anyway? Did you delight in seeing my face flush then fill with red? Did you secretly smile as I yanked away my kid? Did you giggle when I yelled at him before even hearing his side of things? Did you get a warm fuzzy feeling when your kid had the toy all to herself while the other one stood, unused, at the other wall, and my upset son sat at my feet? Will you treasure the memory of making a grown woman cry in the middle of a museum as the invisible weight of the world pounded down on her?
I don't know. Because I don't know you. And you don't know me, either.
 

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