Don't Do That in Public!

Lately I've been really aware of my public Mom persona. I think this is because L is at an extremely strong-willed age and I never know when I'll have to play Captain Bringdown in public. Ha! He'll be at an "extremely strong-willed age" for the rest of his life, I'd bet. I have a strong-willed kid. He's as likely to stop grabbing fruit from the health food store, declaring it a "sample" and cramming it in his mouth too quickly for me to stop him, as I am to win a contest for my math skills. Which is to say: not very likely. The health food store people see him coming and automatically hand me a kumquat and a couple strawberries. We all know we've lost the battle.

Yesterday we had our first swimming lesson, and there was a minor scene. I should have known when we got there and instead of sitting quietly on the edge of the pool like the other toddlers, L. asked me in a loud voice, "Did you bring any water toys, Mom?" that things might be eventful.

I did not bring water toys, I said. Shh!

We started off doing all the cute kid swimming activities, like blowing bubbles, jumping up and down in the water, and singing "The Wheels on the Bus" with new, pool-inspired hand motions. (That my friend Ben was teaching the class made this even more funny, because Ben is one of those friends from before we had a kid. In other words, he has seen me drunk as a skunk and wearing a ridiculous Halloween costume, which I later vomited on. Oh, the memories!)

But like turning off a switch, L. decided he was bored. He started straining against me, stretching his strong, muscular little 35-pound body in search of greener pastures. Imagine hard little feet in your abdomen, pushing.

"I want to go in that other pool, Mumma."

"L., we can't, we're in a class."

He strained some more.

"Let's go, Mumma!"

Finally I said, "Honey, we're in a class--when you're in a class, you have to listen to your teacher and do what they say. Let's listen to Ben!"

I swear L. shot me a look that read, you can't make me. (And that's when I had some foreshadowing of fifth grade parent-teacher conferences.)

Luckily, L. gained interest again and we made it through the class. At the end, Ben gave us a very stern and very scary talk about drowning.

"It happens quickly and silently," he said. "It's not like in Bay Watch."

So, armed with horrible images of Pamela Anderson, I kept L close to me as we left the pool and walked through a little fenced-off section with bleachers where our stuff was. I turned around to find L. trying to squeeze himself through the fence and back into the pool area. Success. Did I mention he's strong and wily like a snake?

"L!" I yelled. "Stop!" He was headed straight for the pool.

"L.!" I yelled again. "You stop RIGHT NOW!" and, catching up with him, I grabbed his arm. Roughly. And we had a very stern talking-to. That's when I noticed all those other parents, whose kids had been well-behaved in swimming class, staring. All those other parents, I should add, who had not stopped my beautiful son from squeezing himself through the gate back towards the pool even though they were in arms' reach.

I have something of an active imagination, but all evening I wondered what those parents thought of me. Most likely: smart mom, to treat the situation seriously (drowning is the silent, quick killer). Possibly: she's way too paranoid and strict; a yeller. Unlikely, but you never know: abusive.

Clearly, I have to develop a thicker skin, because there is a solid chance that in the next, oh, 24 hours, my son is going to behave in public in a way that requires me to reveal something about my parenting.

It makes one feel a little vulnerable.

But there are redeeming moments. Last weekend, we were at the same health food store with the fruit. L. discovered the bulk bins and was happily imagining me filling a bag with jelly beans for him. I kept asking him, reminding him, not to put his fingers in the bins. But lo and behold, I stooped to put some rice in a bag and damned if L. wasn't wrist-deep in the currants when I came back up. Three people's spying eyes on us.

I pulled him aside.

"L.," I said, "I need you to look in my eyes so I know you're hearing me." (Eyes scooted left, then right, up to the ceiling, down the floor...eventually they landed on me briefly before darting off on another errand.)

"I need you to do better listening. I asked you not to put your hands in the bins."

"But why?"

"Because people don't want little kids' fingers in their raisins. I am happy to buy you a little treat, but I need you to promise me you're done putting your hands in the bins. Look me in the eyes and promise. If you put your hands in the bins again, I'm not giving you the treat."

Eyes darted everywhere. Finally he promised. We chose some dates and I let him carry them.

Five minutes later I was browsing in the sunscreen aisle by myself. L. was with my husband. A woman came up to me.

"I just need to tell you," she said, "that you're such a good mom. I saw you in the bulk section with your son, and I was so impressed. Really. Kudos to you."

Talk about making my day. Talk about making my week. Having a stranger witness my disciplinary strategy--the one I made up, with no help from any books, and thus don't know if it might scar my kid for life--and pronounce me a good mom afterwards? Beautiful.

Thank you, stranger, for filling me with hope that I am doing something right.

And here, folks, is my newest favorite picture of the little devil:

--Susie