We are Loved: We are Hated: Mostly We are Barely Tolerated

Going places used to be no big deal.  I was just another forgettable face in the crowd going about my frozen-pizza-buying business quietly and efficiently.  But now that I have two small children, we can't go anywhere under the radar.  Running errands is an event.  We've arrived everybody, stand back less you get sucked into our maelstrom of drool and budding estrogen!

I popped into Starbucks on a whim this morning because the pumpkin spice latte is back, and I think it's some sort of requirement for young, white, middle-class women like myself to indulge in at least one a week if we want to keep our lady bits thawed for the winter.  So since Madeline was at school, and I was in the same plaza doing errands anyhow, I thought I'd just pop in to satisfy my weekly quota.  (My town does not allow drive-thrus because they like to make parents of young children miserable.)

The barista behind the register threw us a smile, but it was clear that she was not thrilled to see a baby balanced on my hip.  Her words were welcoming, but her eyes read, "Okay, how's this baby and her bitch mother going to make my job harder?"  Her feelings were justified when ten seconds later, my spawn knocked an entire display of gift cards across the floor.

The woman behind the counter sighed wearily, her smile a little more rigid, as I apologized and tried to scoop up handfuls of the spilled cards.

"I have three kids at home," she nodded.  "I know how it goes."  Clearly, this woman was in no mood to deal with my child's shenanigans when she had her hands full cleaning up after her own.  And then she shouted toward the back, "Can someone come pick up these cards that just fell all over the floor?"

A manager poked her head out from behind the counter, a clear "WTF" etched between her eyebrows.

"The baby did it," the barista deadpanned, pointing in my direction.  The manager gave me another exasperated, frozen smile as she went about cleaning up our mess.

As I tried to disappear into the haze of artfully brewed coffee and glowing laptop screens, another customer started cooing over how cute Vivi is.  Then she launched into a history of her own teenage daughter.  My pumpkin spiced latte arrived, and still the woman chatted on about her child and mine.

And so, I find that the world's population can be divided into two main categories:  Strangers who are happy to see my kids and strangers who are most definitely not happy to see my kids.

People who are happy to see my kids include the following: most teen-aged girls, moms of much older children, men in business attire (who very rarely take the time to say anything to us, but smile nonetheless), the elderly, fellow redheads/ former redheads/ relatives of redheads, and grocery store cashiers. 

Meanwhile,  attractive young women on cell phones, moms/dads of young children who are trying to get a break by leaving them at home, grumpy old people, pretentious ass-hats*, and every member of the service industry, except for grocery store cashiers, are usually not happy to see my kids.

(* Special Note:  These people are not ass-hats because they don't like my kids.  I suspect many people view my children the way I view other people's pets.  Sure, that hamster seems nice, but I just don't know him well enough to find him cute and/or particularly interesting.  And that's okay.  These people are ass-hats because their heads are in the wrong place, AND they don't like my kids. This includes the lady who spent twenty minutes inspecting and critiquing every slice of meat she ordered at the deli the other day, but who also gave me a dirty look when Madeline knocked over a package of kaiser rolls.  Move along, lady.  Move along.)

There's also a third category of people who don't notice my kids either way.  This includes the moms/ dads who also have their young children with them because A. They are two busy dealing with their own brood to bother with mine, and B: They think their kids are cuter anyhow (false).  This third category also includes most adolescent males who don't notice much of anything at all.

Here's what a recent trip to the grocery store looked like for me and my girls:

Vivi spent the entire time growling, giggling, pulling Maddie's hair, and kicking her in the head.  Maddie spent the entire time screeching, giggling, and pretending to be angry.  (I know M looks sad in these pictures, but don't be fooled.  She was egging Vivi on the whole time.)

Some people smiled at our chaos.  Some scowled.  Some laughed.  Some threw me looks of absolute horror.  Some were too busy blocking the aisle to notice us standing there at all.  Some stopped to compliment Maddie's hair and talk about their ten redheaded grandchildren.

We're now out of paper towels, but I'd rather let the girls wipe their faces with bits of toilet paper than bother with bringing them to the store.  I hope that brings the people who are not happy to see my kids at least some measure of comfort.  And I won't be going to Starbucks anytime soon either.  I'll drive two towns over to use the drive-thru.