Unpopular Opinion: Parents, You Need To Make Your Brat Children Behave in Public
PLUS: Jane reinvites you over to her house!
Dear Readers,
I know I never call you that, so it might be jarring. Like if your boyfriend or girlfriend suddenly calls you “babe” when they never use that term. Or when you say “I love you, honey” to the cashier, which I did this morning and do accidentally way too often.
But this time I mean it literally because this first question is specifically directed at people who are part of our AJPT Controversial Books-Only book club: How many of you are finished with our first book, How To Lose Your Mother? I'm not, but that's not because it's not a page-turner, as it very much is. I keep forcing myself to put it aside to do work (well, this) instead, so I'm about halfway through. Anyway, I think we were talking about meeting on the 12th at my place (or by Zoom, if you don't make it in person) and I'm wondering how you guys feel about waiting until the weekend of the 19th when the Amazing Corynne will also be in New York City and can ideally join in. Let me know what your schedules are like then and how you feel about this potential postponement.
OK, with that order of business out-of-the-way, I am really excited to trash little children today in the comments of Andy's post. Having raised my daughter in child-way-too-friendly Tribeca, it is incalculable the number of times I got my shins bashed by a tyke on a scooter whose mom then glared at me as though I had done something wrong by getting in his or her or their unique path. I hate the parents in these situations maybe more than the kids themselves, but let's trash them all in the comments. Why not? Pull out your bratty kid encounter stories and get some sympathy here. Or tell us we're disgusting for blaming parents who are just trying their best or kids who don't know better. Or something more nuanced in between. Anyway, thanks Andy for the fun topic and let's get at it!
Love you very much, honeys,
Jane
By Andy Finley
Everyone knows what I’m talking about. We’ve all been in a grocery store, or a restaurant, or a sex toy shop, and there’s some theoretical parent ignoring their terrorist child who is busy wrecking the joint.
No more. Get your fucking kids under control. Just because you failed as a parent doesn’t mean we all have to suffer with you. It’s not too late to redeem yourselves.
Anyone who has worked in a public-facing job knows of what I speak. I’ve worked in a bewildering variety of occupations, and almost all of them have shown me the worst that humanity can offer. A few examples, for your consideration:
Once upon a time, I worked as a recording engineer, specializing in recording classical music. Which is why I’m screaming into the void in this essay, not jet-setting around the world. I spent two summers working at the Aspen Music Festival, and if you have a spare $10,000 lying around, I recommend attending. Anyway, at every venue the festival hosted, a large sign informed attendees that children under a certain age would NOT be allowed inside.
The festival staff didn’t give a rat’s ass if you already purchased your tickets. They didn’t care if you were a personal friend of O.J. Simpson. Your kid wasn’t going in there.
The air raid siren masquerading as a toddler immediately shut up as she was handed the warm cookie.
This wasn’t just for the sake of all the other insanely rich people taking a break from ruling the world to enjoy a performance of Beethoven’s 7th Symphony. We recorded every single performance, at every venue, live. That meant that the occasional cough or rustling of programs would mean the difference between a performance airing on your local classical station or rotting in the archives.
Do you really think the festival was willing to risk every one of these concerts being ruined by some little shit making fart sounds?
Oh how I desperately wish that every public place took the same hard line. When the economy came to a screeching halt in 2008, my audio career was already in the toilet and just needed the flush to make it official. So, I leaned on skills I learned growing up in the restaurant business (we’ll get to that) and worked for several years as a baker in a large grocery chain.
You already know where this is going, don’t you?
“I WANT SOME COOKIES! I WANT ICE CREAM! I NEED TO PEE! AAAAAHHHHHH!”
My friends, I feel your pain. No, not you, failed parents. I’m talking about my partners in suffering—those who try desperately to blot out the shrieks and wreckage caused by a six-year-old Tasmanian Devil.
The place where I worked had a policy of providing a free cookie (ONE cookie, goddammit) to any kid under the age of ten. The little rat bastards could choose from either chocolate chip, sugar or—brace yourselves—oatmeal raisin. This created an endless stream of opportunities for my soul to be torn apart on a daily basis.
I made a habit of not baking additional cookies when all we had left were the sad, sorry, oatmeal raisins. Yes, I took significant glee watching disappointment bloom on their faces when the kids realized what I’d handed them. Everybody needs a hobby.
Anyway, one day a lady came by the bakery, pushing one of those gigantic shopping carts that looks like a firetruck, with her little angel sitting inside the cab. The kid was probably three, so Mom politely asked for the cookie. I smiled as I handed her an oatmeal raisin.
Her face took a decidedly apprehensive turn, like she expected a scene from The Exorcist to play out right then.
“Um… do you have any other cookies?”
“I’m sorry, we don’t have any others ready yet. It’ll be another twenty minutes.”
She tentatively handed her precious little pumpkin the cookie, and…
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I am not kidding you.
Of course, the mother was screwed and she knew it. So she pushed the shopping cart into the blackness that had become her life. Meanwhile, Linda Blair literally held the cookie out the window of the firetruck in her thumb and forefinger, as if it were a dirty diaper.
I could hear the screams from the other side of the store.
It didn’t stop.
I knew what was going to happen.
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