"Me" Time

I went to a popular Tex-Mex café with my son recently. Little Son, (who is not so little anymore), is 12, and he snagged a table for us while I paid for our lunch. When I joined him at the table, I was dismayed to see that we were within kissing distance of two tables: one populated by 4 or 5 mothers, the other populated by at least six to eight kids, ages ranging from two to perhaps four or five.

I looked at my son with my “are-you-kidding-me-this-is-where-you-want-to-sit?”

face. He shrugged, looked around. I too looked around. During the busy lunch throng, no other tables were available. No surprise, that.

We sat to eat while toddlers chased each other around their table—and ours, screaming, bumping my chair, grabbing my purse with their sticky, filthy hands, smearing refried beans into each other’s hair. The mothers sat at their table, completely oblivious. They were laughing, gabbing, nattering on while their children ran amok. My son and I ate quickly and left as soon as we could.

Even more recently, I went to a coffee shop to meet a couple of friends for coffee. I was there first, so I snagged a table and waited. As I picked up my coffee order, I almost tripped over three young children running around the shop. The table next to me housed three women, one pregnant, one with a baby in a carrier, and the three children running around, yelling and disturbing the other patrons belonged to one, two or all three of these women. I wasn’t in a particularly good space that day. I wasn’t feeling very social. On top of that, I seem to have a weird vibe I unconsciously send out to furry creatures and children that says, “Come to me, come, come and I will pay attention to you.” My conscious mind is attempting to send out the message, “Keep away; I bite.” But that message never seems to get across.

I pulled out my notebook and began writing, trying to jot down thoughts for a poem I was penning at home. It was difficult to think with the commotion of the children as they screamed, careened around, fell, cried and nagged their mother’s to get them this, that or the other thing, or to take them to the potty or wash their hands. The mothers ignored the kids and chatted away. I was mildly irritated. Suddenly, I felt two eyes on me. A two-year-old stood right next to my chair, staring at me. I stared back. We stayed like that for a minute. Finally, I nodded and said, “Hi there.” The child, replete with chocolate-sticky-goo covering the circumference of her mouth backed away from me and toddled toward another table.

I don’t know who to blame, here. I want to blame the proverb “It takes a village…” but that’s too old to blame. That proverb has been around since before my mother raised children, and she didn’t expect the whole fucking village to watch her kids while she sipped a latte and gossiped.

Part of me wants to blame the pop-culture-pop-psychology of the nineties or 2000′s that introduced the concept of “me” time to mothers everywhere. Yes, “me” time. We all need “me” time. Calgon, take me away time. The problem with today’s “me” time is that it infringes on everybody else’s “me” time.

Have you EVER seen this? I haven't.

When I was a young mother, my friend and I took our kids to the McDonald’s play place while we spent time venting/decompressing/talking. The kids were together, in a safe environment (basically) and could be watched from where we sat. In nice weather, we brought picnic lunches to the park, had our kids sit and eat, then go play on the playground under our watchful eyes. Mostly, we went to each other’s houses and had tea while the kids played in the house, always in ear-shot or line of sight. I would have never considered taking my kids to a coffee shop or restaurant and allowed them to run around, unchecked, and talk to other people who were probably there to be away from their children.

Since when has tolerance for this become implied? I want to be clear: I am intolerant of unsupervised children. I thought I’d state it outright if the first portion of this post isn’t crystal-fucking-clear enough. No, I don’t think your child is adorable. No, I don’t want to interact with him/her/it. No, I’m not going to entertain it while you dish about your husbands, your friend who isn’t there or your new trainer. No, I don’t appreciate sticky hands touching me, my purse, my keys, my lap, my napkin or my silverware. No. JUST no.

It seems to be yet another product of our “entitlement culture,” the culture of solipsistic souls who live in the Kingdom of Me; who lack any recognition that they inhabit a society of other people who don’t simply live to cater to their own, personal needs.

I believe that parents should take “me” time, but to qualify this, let me say that once you become a parent, your “me” time should look a lot different than it did pre-reproducing, or once your kids have grown. It requires a modicum of sacrifice, and that seems like an outdated, dirty word in today’s milieu. No one wants to sacrifice anything, even if it means that their mess bleeds on to other people around them.

You want to go to coffee with your girlfriends? Leave the kids at home with hubby. He’s taking his own “me” time? Then you trade off with him, find a pre-teen to babysit, or stay home.

I raised most of my kids so I’m past that stage, but when I go to coffee with friends, I go there to be with other adults and relax. I don’t go there to be unwillingly recruited to watch your toddler so he doesn’t get a goose-egg from the coffee counter.

Besides that, children smell.