Today was a fun day for the kids.  Today was DENTIST day.

The dentist office we go to is AWESOME, complete with cartoons and movies and a play structure better than most public malls.  Like most days that we visit the dentist, the play place was packed full.  I counted five families and at least twelve kids.

I was sitting on one side of the VERY large room with my nose in a book, waiting for the hygienist to call the kids back for their checkups.  Mace and Norah were in normal busy-busy-busy mode, running and climbing and jumping off the tallest toy to my right.  Wulf was playing on the other side of the room on the other side of a large pillar.  I couldn’t see him from where I was sitting.

Suddenly in a very loud voice from across the room an older man yelled, “HEY YOU, you in the black shirt, HEY YOU.” I looked up thinking “WTF, buddy.”  As I glanced around to see where the noise was coming from I met his eye, realized he was talking to ME, and he said “Is this your kid?”

I don’t yell at strangers, plus I was trying to be dignified.  I got up and walked over to him. “Yes, that’s my son. What seems to be the problem?”

“You need to control your kid, keep him from karate chopping my son.”

IMMEDIATELY pissed off.  My “FIRST OF ALL, FUCK YOU” response was barely choked back.  I was pissed at myself for not seeing what was going on.  I was pissed at Wulf for doing something SO INCREDIBLY STUPID, something that we’ve talked about LITERALLY HUNDREDS OF TIMES.  I was pissed off that the man yelled at me from across the room, that I got called out and chastised like a child, that I had a kid that would do something that required another parent to address me in such a manner.  I was pissed off that this man was such a HUGE ASSHOLE.

I was pissed because I was embarrassed, having been made a spectacle.

I stood there seething for what felt like ten minutes (but was probably only three seconds) then took a breath, took a knee, and talked to Wulf.

“Did you really do that?”  He started crying.  SUCH a sensitive kid.  “YEEEEEEEEEEEEES.”

We talked about keeping hands to ourselves, and that it wasn’t okay to hit people while we were playing, especially kids smaller than us (this kid was way smaller), and “what do you think you should do.”  To Wulf’s credit he knew what he’d done wrong, and he knew what he had to do.  He faced the little boy and his father and apologized through his tears.  I apologized, too, both to the little boy and his father.  I asked the little boy if he had been hurt, and if he was going to be okay.  Wulf was ashamed and embarrassed, as he probably should have been.

And to be  totally honest, I was ashamed.  And embarrassed.  And humiliated.  Wulf was the one that did something wrong, but I felt as small as he did.  In my heart HIS mistake was MY mistake.  His error in judgement was my error in judgement.  “BAD MOM, ERIN, BAD MOM.”

As we were walking away the man said to HIS son, “You don’t hit either, you say sorry too.”

I paused.

I turned around and looked at the man.

“So they were both hitting each other.  Not just mine was hitting.”

The man replied, “Yes, they were both at it.”

I didn’t reply, and I didn’t move.  I waited.  And before you think that my waiting was because I’m wise or thoughtful, I need to be honest and tell you that I WAITED because I was trying to decide whether or not to chew that man’s ASS.  In my head Goth Erin, The Sheriff, and Failure were having an argument, and they were ALL PISSED.  In my head I was using ALL MY BAD WORDS.   I was trying to decide if it was worth it to get into it with some random old guy about mutual accountability, about taking fair share of the blame, and about putting things on me and my kid that aren’t totally on ME, OR my kid.  My brain was busy computing.  And so I waited.  I stood there in my irritation and anger and I waited.

I waited, and I thought, and fought with myself on the inside.  Then the man then started to talk.

“You know, they get to this age and they just start in on things.  The start in on the beatings.  They hit and play Ironman-Spiderman-Superman-Wolverine, they hit and play and then before very long it’s not playing it’s just hitting.  Then they KEEP hitting.”  His voice trailed off, as if distracted by a memory that grabbed his arm for attention.

In that moment something in his voice silenced all the voices in my head.  I stopped arguing with myself about the injustice of the situation and looked at the man’s face.  REALLY looked.  I had barely noticed him before, the blood rage was blinding, but for just a second the rage lifted and I saw his face.  He looked way, way, way older than he could be to have a child the age that he had.  Life had wrung the youth from his face.  He was gnarled and gristly and chewed up, like a piece of cheap, neglected, wooden baseboard behind the door.  Beat up, beat on, dented.  Forgotten.

In one way or another, that man was a victim of violence.

I noticed those things about that man when I looked at his face, and AAAAAAAAAAALL kinds of things fell into place.  It wasn’t JUST about my kid and what my kid was doing.  It wasn’t about my kid at all, really.  It for sure wasn’t about me.

Before I could get any farther into it, the hygienist called our name.  “Sorry again,” I said, “have a good day.”

I thought about the altercation over the next hour or so while the kids got their teeth checked.  I’m an introvert by nature and usually (always) have to sit for an abnormally (retardedly) long time with things before I understand what I’m feeling, and why I feel that way.  I sat in the exam room with heavy guts and guilty heart and sad mind, churning through the incident in my head, trying to figure out why I was so upset.

I think the reason I got so pissed off initially was because I took my son’s poor choice personally.  As a parent watching your child get in trouble is hard, but YOU getting in trouble for a parental error in judgement is WORSE.  And how often does that happen?  WAY MORE THAN YOU’RE TOLD, for sure.

I’m POSITIVE that I make bad choices as a parent.  WE ALL DO.  People sometimes tell me “Oh you’re a GREAT Mom.”  I say “Thanks,” but inside I think “WOW, got them fooled.”  Honestly I have no idea what I’m doing.  No matter how good or bad my kids behave, the reality is that I have NO IDEA what I’m doing.  MOST of the time.  I’d go so far as to say that REALISTICALLY, not one single parent in the history of the universe knows what the fuck they’re doing MOST OF THE TIME.

The SECOND reason I felt angry was because I was held accountable, and I felt like I failed.  I could have done better.  Whether or not I saw what Wulf was doing, I SHOULD have.  I could have, if I’d had my face forward and if I was paying closer attention.  Granted, we can’t be all the places all the time.  And it wasn’t like I was texting or napping or just all around being neglectful, and it’s not like my kid was two years old and screaming for attention.  He’s FIVE.  And in school, and old enough to make his own safe choices in a safe environment.

STILL though.  I was held accountable.  NO ONE LIKES THAT.  I got called out and called over, like a kid getting called to the front of the class for misbehaving in the back.  It was shameful.  I DO NOT DO SHAME WELL, OR AT ALL.

It did make me think, though.  After the fact, of course, it made me think.

How different would life be if parents were held accountable for their kids screwing up?  I’ve ALWAYS THOUGHT THEY SHOULD BE.  Being on the receiving end isn’t good, but if I support parental accountability that means it should apply to me, too.  If my kid is doing something unacceptable, it should be ON ME in some regard.  And I WANT TO KNOW if my kids are doing things that people find unacceptable.

As parents think about how much better we’d be at our job if people would tell us “Um, your kid is a dick.”  We’d be PISSED THE FUCK OFF, but we’d be pissed because we know deep down that it’s true.  When that man confronted me about Wulf I was angry because I KNOW that Wulf has a hard time with his temper, and he has a HUGE inclination to be a bully.  I SEE IT.  I know it.  And no matter how hard I try, my choices for Wulf are not HIS choices.

But the accountability makes me want to try harder.

As a parent, knowing for sure I’ll be called out on my shit with my kid makes me try harder.

That man, no matter how poorly he chose to do what he did, did a good thing.  He did me a favor.  He reminded me that we need to keep trying, even when we think things are “just the way they are.”  Even when we think that what we do won’t make a difference.  If it’s important to us, like “not fighting” was important to HIM, we have to keep trying.

I have to keep trying to get through to an overly sensitive, prone-to-bullying Wulfgar.  Wulfgar has to keep trying to control his emotions and temper.  We all have to try to be better than what we are, and we have to try to BE the change we want to see.

On our way out the door after the checkup was finished, I saw the same man waiting in the public waiting room for his son.  He was eating his lunch while he waited.  I was halfway out the front door when I paused, told the kids “WAIT HERE,” then doubled back and approached the man.

“Excuse me, Sir?”  He looked up from his food and said “Yes?”

I knelt down by his chair, looked up at his life-beaten face, and said “Thank you.”

He furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me like I was crazy.

I said “Thank you for involving me in all that.  For talking to me when you had a problem with my son, and with what the boys were doing.  Thanks for telling me how you felt.  Most parents wouldn’t do that…”

He interrupted.  “Yeah, most people would just get angry.”

“Or say nothing,” I added, “and no one is any better if we don’t say things that we feel need to be said.”

He paused and looked at me, kind of smiled.  “Yeah.”

I shook his rough hand and said “Thanks again” before I stood up and walked back to my kids at the front.

I will likely never see that man or that child again.  I will not forget, though.  Not for a long time.  The lessons that were reinforced today were that accountability is important, that it sucks to get it, and that I have to KEEP TRYING.  That if something is important to me, I have to keep pushing for it, even when I step on toes or make a scene.  The lessons will stick, no matter how soon I forget the circumstances that reminded me.

I was also reminded that a person’s perspective determines their reality, and although the boys were BOYS busy at play, what that man saw was a threat.  The violence was scary for him and not acceptable, regardless of how real it was.

If nothing else I admire and respect the spunk of that guy.  Takes a pretty outgoing personality to address another adult the way he talked to me.  ….although I suppose it’s possible I don’t look as tough as I feel….   damnit.  Have to go lift some weights.