Hey Lady, Your Bigot is Showing

I’m really in the wrong profession.

This whole “Stay-At-Home-Mom” thing isn’t very lucrative and since I obviously have a face or a demeanor that makes every batshitcrazy person on earth feel like they can confess their innermost thoughts to me, maybe I should be a shrink, or a probation officer… or a priest.

Okay, the Priest thing is a bit far-fetched.  Firstly because I’m a woman and secondly because I’m Jewish.

I never thought much of what other people thought of my religious beliefs.  Maybe because I was born into Judaism, maybe because I grew up in a proverbial melting pot of religions and different ethnicities, maybe because I watched a large amount of Sesame Street in the 1970’s.  Whatever the reason, I really believe that a person is defined by their actions, and that is what makes them a good human being.  But as I’m getting older I’m discovering the hard way that more and more people are walking around with bigotry and hate in their hearts and their minds.  And now that I have brought 3 children into this world this fact is extremely discouraging.

My husband’s cousin and I went out for lunch today.  The baby had just gotten some inoculations at the Doctor and was a bit crabby.  When I finally was able to get him to nap I was just super excited to get some girl time with my friend and enjoy some delicious lunch.

I’ve always been friendly and, come to find out, my cute baby is a conversation piece to many people.  I’m always happy to oblige… I mean how can you dislike someone standing with you and complimenting your child?  I can’t.  I’m a sucker for the kid compliments.  And it’s usually a pretty welcome part of life as my days are mostly spent without adult interaction, unless you count the bag boy at the supermarket.  So, when our waitress started with the small talk I was more than happy to oblige…

“So, my daughter has a 2-year-old.  And she wants to have more… but her husband put his foot down and said only after their son is 5.”

Wow, 5? That sounds pretty arbitrary…

“Yeah, I told her, that’s too much of an age difference.”

{My first 2 kids are 5 years apart, but to each his own}

“Well, you know what the real problem with her husband is?”

What is that?

“He’s a Jew… {at this point she must have seen the shocked look on our faces}  You know, Jews are notoriously stingy with money.”

Oh are they?  Well I’m a Jew.

“Oh but you’re a woman… I don’t know, are lady Jews stingy?”

{Shock.  Disbelief.  Is this chick crazy?}

I don’t think so, but then again I also don’t think my religious practices or my lady parts have anything to do with how I spend my money.

{Can she see this conversation is nuts?  She has to know how bizarre this conversation is?}

“Well, he makes my daughter work… and pay for daycare too.  She can’t stay at home and she can’t even drive his new car.”

I hate to break it to you… Louise, is it?  But I don’t think that being a Jew is your son-in-law’s problem.  I think the problem is that he is just… a dick.

And there it is.  The elephant in the room.  Some people are just assholes.  And because they are assholes people will take what they lack in their personality and group them together by the whole of their parts.  And you know what?

I’m tired of it.

Judge me on me.

Judge me based upon my actions and nothing else.

At that exact moment, what I wanted to do was bitch slap this lady and scream in her face, “Hey lady, your bigot is showing!”  What I wanted to do was talk to her manager and have her fired for being such a judgemental piece of shit.  I wanted her to feel as bad as she had made me feel just to show her how shitty it felt.

But that’s not me.  That’s anger.

I haven’t been that person in a very long time.

I don’t need you to feel bad so that I can feel better.

I can feel better just by remembering that I am better… better than this whole conversation.  Because I can walk away and go back to my life filled with love and poops, laughter and tears, food and wine, stitches and skinned knees, laundry and little bickering voices, and baby belly laughs.

I will have pity in my heart for that woman because she doesn’t know any better.  And she’ll never have the pleasure of getting to know me.

Period.

I still tipped her 15% because she did take our order, serve our food, refill our drinks and promptly bring us our check.  I appreciate the fact that someone else waited on me.  There is value in that.  Her son-in-law might be the cheapest bastard on the planet.  But I am not.

She performed her job.

As for her people skills?  She should probably avoid public speaking.  Unless it’s for the KKK.

Tonight I’ll read my sons The Butter Battle Book by Dr. Seuss before bed.

And hopefully, if the time ever comes, they too will be able to turn the other cheek no matter what side of bread you choose to butter.

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My Toddler, Chuck Norris

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I cook almost every night.

Sometimes it’s an escape.  I day-dream that I”m a world-class chef about to serve my love on a plate to some A-list celebs.  They rant and rave about the party in their mouth.

Sometimes it’s a freaking chore and a half because in actuality I’m cooking for a bunch of little boys who would prefer frozen chicken nuggets and Velveeta shells and cheese to any of my homemade delicacies.

Back in our heyday… BC (Before Children), the Hubby and I would dine out quite a bit.  At least 5 nights a week.  It was a complete and total waste of money but in BC world, money didn’t matter.  We worked, we ate, we drank.  I vividly remember leaving my job (where I got to wear pencil skits, fitted button down shirts and heels) and going to a bar… ALONE… and indulging in many dirty martinis.  BC was the shit.

Fast forward to now… AD (After Delivery), and dining out is a novelty.  And with 3 kids you have to be prepared that their behavior will quickly go to shit and you won’t even get to eat.  That’s happened on numerous occasions.  One kid will act up right after we order and we will run from the restaurant, to-go boxes in hand.

Saturday night we went out for dinner with the children.  We had a fantastic time, the food was excellent and they were really well-behaved.  It was bliss and completely out of the norm.

We had leftovers from that dinner which our waiter kindly sent us home with.  I’ve been dreaming about this doggie bag for two damn days!  I couldn’t wait to be able to quietly and without interruption enjoy them for lunch today.

But the best laid plans can always go to shit.

The big kids were at camp, the baby was taking a nap and it was just mommy time.  That in itself should have had me on high alert but I was just so excited for my food.  The microwave beep made my mouth water!  I was super hungry.  I hunkered down with a huge plate of food on the coffee table while I sat down to eat on the couch (a big no-no in front of the kids).  I was watching some amazingly mindless daytime television and had just popped the second bite of food in my mouth when the phone rang.  I absent-mindedly answered it expecting to hear a solicitor on the other end.

It was not a solicitor.

It was camp.

My 3-year-old had been running, slipped, and fell (headfirst) into a metal bleacher.  He was fine, but bleeding and they thought he needed to see a doctor.

I put down my fork, packed up the baby, and rushed off to Middle Monkey with speed and focus that I had forgotten I possessed back in BC.

The fifteen minute drive to camp felt like hours.  It was raining and there was a cop behind me.  Sometimes having a wonderful imagination is a bad, bad thing.  This was one of those times. Visions of my beautiful but precocious child bleeding and crying blurred my vision.  When I finally arrived at camp I didn’t even turn off the car or move the baby, I just threw my car in park, left it running and went to assess the damage.

As I met the camp director at the curb she filled me in…

“He’s doing great.  He’s such a trooper.  The cut looks deep.  We have it under control.  He might need stitches.  He didn’t even CRY.”

Wait? What?

“Yeah, he didn’t even cry.  Not at all. He’s unbelievable.”

{Unbelievable is an understatement}

As I walked into the nurse’s office I found my little man, sipping on a juice box with a big gauze pad taped to his forehead.

“Hi Mom.  I fell.”

I heard buddy.  You okay.

“Yeah, I okay.”

Does your head hurt?

“A little.”

Holy shit.

My kid is Chuck Norris.

This little boy, who cries when he can’t have two packs of fruit snacks… This little shit, who annoys his brother to the ends of the earth, where he is finally forced to use physical violence to subdue him (barely) and then he cries like a hungry infant… This MONSTER, who weeps when I ask him to pick up a book/a toy/a sock, or worse, put down the toilet seat… This terror who sobs when he has to finish his dinner to get desert… doesn’t cry when it’s the real-time for tears?

The time when he could really be hurt and everything should be super scary is the time he has decided to be cool, calm, and collected.

Fuckin’ Chuck Norris.

And he really didn’t cry.

Through 3 hours at the emergency room, through 5 stitches in his forehead (right above his eyebrow) he was the biggest 3-year-old badass I’ve ever seen in my life.

When we arrived back home he ate an ice cream sandwich and fell asleep watching The Lego Movie.

I’m just sitting here watching him sleep and counting my blessings that this was our first trip to the ER with 3 boys and it was only for stitches.

My leftovers can wait until tomorrow.