slacker mom revisited

Okay…calm down…don’t get excited, but Thing One and Thing Two just shared their feelings with each other in a mature and caring way as they re-did a fight they had where both of them got physically and emotionally hurt. Wow. Sometimes I feel like I’m not a complete goon of a mom.

Which brings us to slacker mom II electric bugaloo (for those of you who don’t remember or never even experienced the ‘80s—almost everyone of that era adds an “electric bugaloo” to a sequel. just accept it.)

Today at the zoo. Today. At the zoo. For the record, the only animal we saw at the zoo today were the seals. Okay, and the flamingos. That’s what kind of day today was.

I was sitting with a friend, at the zoo, while our kids played in a fenced in area close by. The baby was squirmy and wanted to crawl around, but we were by the sidewalk and I was afraid he might get trampled. So I took him to the other side of the fence to crawl around inside the play area while I sat three feet away and visited with my friend. He was right in front of me, three feet away. As babies will do, he found a chunk of wood to chew on. It was not a choking hazard nor would I fret too much if it were because he spends his day with plenty of Legos and marbles to choke on and chooses not to choke on those. But a concerned patron of the zoo became alarmed and started questioning random people to ascertain whose neglected child this was. I was not paying attention until I was questioned.

“He has a piece of wood in his mouth,” the woman told me.

“He always has something in his mouth,” I replied, but I did get up to take away his latest teether.

As I was walking to him, a man passing by said, “He’s not mine. If he were, he would not be alone.”

I turned to him and said, “He’s not alone. I am right here.” Me, part of my head shaved, nose ring, tattoos, stripey socks up to my knees and motorcycle boots. People rarely challenge me in public. I don’t think I am scary…but I know I am hard to read. And I have the stereotype of moms who look like me. The stereotype of anybody who looks like me. Not mommish. Assuredly, not mommish. Which brings me to my earlier encounter this week. I was at a park where a church group was having a free crafts & sno-cone day. The church guy went up to every mom but me…every mom but me…to invite them to crafts and sno-cones. I wasn’t hurt. I have a big pagan tattoo on my arm. But, fuck. They could have at least cared enough to try to save my kids….

Dad at the zoo apologized. He explained that someone had asked if the baby was his. But, seriously, did he think that just because he was not hovering over top of my baby that that meant my baby was neglected?

I am not a helicopter mom. Again, X-generation ‘80s kid here. I survived, and I had crappy parents. My kids will be fine.

Maybe I should get a t-shirt that says, “Slacker mom”

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