While many of us love and adore our parents, it’s hard to imagine that, even when you become a parent, you’re…a parent. It’s surreal thinking that I’m someone’s “mother”—one day, I’ll say things like “Empty the dishwasher or you’ll have no TV,” or “That’s it! You’re grounded,” or even, “That’s your girlfriend?”
Am I going to be the mom who, when my son says he’s sleeping at Ben’s house, will call Ben’s mother to make sure that she’s at home and that the boys are actually going to be where they say there are? Am I going to be embarrassing?
Guess what? I already am.
VIGILANTE OF PARENTAL JUSTICE – CASE #1
New Year’s Eve 2011
Mike and I and a few of our parental friends are standing outside a club/restaurant ready to party the night away. Mind you, we didn’t come by this easily. It takes a lot of work to get a group of parents out…let alone on New Year’s Eve. First of all, we had to be dressed, which is quite a feat when you’re used to wearing the same Target sweatpants (holla back Champion for Target—a mom’s uniform!) and semi dirty t-shirt every single day. So, wearing an outfit…especially a…ahem…hot outfit…is a MAJOR DEAL. Now, that’s just the clothes. Let’s talk logistics. What does it take to get a parent out? First, you need childcare. We booked our NYE babysitter a month in advance and committed to paying her double. We did all of this before we had any semblance of a plan. Then, we had to pick a location for this event. Once we found a place that wasn’t going to force us to eat a prix fixe menu or slap a giant cover charge on us, we were set. No guest list, no drama, just 6 “dying to get out,” “hoping their pants still zip” parents of toddlers out on the town.
We arrive at the door of our New Year’s Eve party spot and we notice, much to our chagrin, that there’s a tall blonde with a clipboard standing out front flanked by two hulking dudes wearing earpieces. This is the sign of…a guest list. A lockout. Something that we were promised wouldn’t happen.
Me: “Hi, uh…we’re here for drinks.”
Door girl: “Your name please?”
Me: “I was told there would be no guest list this evening.”
Door girl: “You were told incorrectly.”
Me: “Oh. Well anyway, we have friends having dinner here so we’re just joining them for drinks.”
Door girl: “And their names are?”
Okay, so we legitimately do have friends having dinner there and we give the tall blonde with the clipboard their names and she disappears into the abyss of “let me see if it’s okay for me to open our completely empty space up to you and your four friends and I’m going to take a really long time so you sweat it out and feel inadequate.”
Little did Blondie know she was messing with the wrong mama.
In the time that it took for her to spin on her wedged heel, “check with the manager,” and return, I became pissed. Really pissed. I was wearing my highest heels. I was wearing my tightest pants and there was no way that she was going to rob me of this night. Maybe last year when I was sleep deprived, drowning in baby weight and boulder-sized breast feeding tatas…maybe then…but not now.
She returns.
Doorgirl: “So…we can let you two in” (she gestures with her pen to Mike and me) “and two more but that’s it. Sorry. We’re at capacity.”
And this is what happens when you push 8.4 lbs out of your vagina…
Me: “Do you have any idea what it took for us to get here? We’ve been planning on this for a month. We, and I mean all of us, have hired very expensive help to sit and watch TV while our children sleep. We have gotten dressed up, arranged transportation, and…I’m sorry…did I mention what it’s like getting a babysitter on New Year’s Eve? Anyway, this was no small feat. We’re parents of little children who are ready to party and we were told there would be no list so here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going y to let all of us in and you’re not going to give us any more problems about it because there is NO WAY you’re going to screw this up for us. No f-ing way.”
And I walked right passed her (I think I even grazed her shoulder with my jacket), threw open the big red door and walked right into the fortress, my posse following closely behind.
But I’m not the only vigilante of parental justice living in my house…
VIGILANTE OF PARENTAL JUSTICE – CASE #2:
The other day, at the Farmer’s Market, Mike, Max and I were patiently waiting for a parking space when some guy coming in the other direction swoops in and jacks our space. Now, Mike, who happens to be one of the nicest guys anyone will ever meet—someone who really doesn’t have a temper and someone who I count on to keep ME sane—loses it. We’ve got the kid in the car and we’re on a tight schedule, people. Tight. This means that lunch was supposed to happen seven minutes ago and we’re about 25 minutes away from a pre-nap meltdown. This a—hole who’s stolen our space has just cost us those precious 11 minutes. Minutes that are the difference between having to transfer our kid from the car to the crib, minutes that are the difference between having a semi-peaceful meal and having to peel our screaming child off of the concrete as we apologetically nod to fellow diners and passersby.
And this is what happens when you make a Flip video of your wife pushing 8.4 lbs out of her vagina…
He does what any decent, self respecting father, a true vigilante of parental justice would do. He blocks the entire lane, refuses to let any cars pass us, gets out of the car and walks right up the parking space stealing douchebag’s window and knocks on it. The douchebag is now scared because my husband (of whom I’m now very scared) is knocking furiously at his window and has blocked his ability to leave the space.
Mike: “You just stole my space.”
Douchebag: “Oh hey bro…you know how it is.”
Mike: “No, this is NOT how it is.”
Douchebag: “C’mon man. Let me get out…”
Mike: “You will not get out unless you’re interested in passing by me. You see all of these cars? They’re all piling up because you stole my space. Blatantly stole my space. Now I have my wife and my kid in that car and we need to get to lunch so here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to roll your window up. You’re going to turn your car back on and you’re going to back out of this space and let me get in and then you’re going to drive around and find another place to park your Prius.”
And instead of, oh I don’t know, punching my husband in the face or pulling out his glock and shooting him, the douchebag rolls his window back up, turns his silent car back on and slithers out of the space.
Now, I don’t know if this means that Mike and I will one day be arrested in the assault of another couple during a soccer game or if it means that I’ll become some insane Dance Mom or whether it just means that we’re…embarrassing. The way all parents are meant to be. Yup. I’m pretty sure Max will sprint away from us in the carpool line and beg to be dropped off at the mall by the time he’s five years old, but too bad…at least he’ll learn how to talk his way into a club and get a decent parking space--tools that are integral to success in Tinseltown.
Happy Belated New Year.
Wow! You are some fierce mamma bear!! Scary!And totally hilarious.
Posted by: Carolyn White | February 03, 2012 at 12:57 PM