Strangers, I Saw You Looking At My Kids With Disgust

by Lola Lolita
Originally Published: 

I saw you as we came in to the restaurant, my 7 and 4-year-olds bumping into the wait staff and crowding the already narrow walkway, my cranky 8-month-old whining for his bottle despite just having eaten before we left home.

I saw your eyes turn toward one another, a knowing look of “Oh, great. Children” splayed across your faces.

I saw you clench your jaws and sit up straighter in your chairs, preparing to bite your tongues as you bit into your meals, irritated at the rambunctious clamor sure to emanate from our table.

I saw you curl your lips when my 4-year-old had a fit because my 7-year-old snagged the chair next to Daddy even though he had called that chair before we ever even exited our vehicle.

I saw you roll your eyes when my 8-month-old dropped his pacifier … and his rattle … and all four place settings … and the salt and pepper shakers on the ground, and my older boys both jumped up at the opportunity to “help,” pushing and knocking each other down in an effort to get to the items first.

I saw you exhale deep, hot breaths of annoyance when my 7-year-old wanted a third Shirley Temple and we said no instead of giving in and allowing him to go on a sugar bender for the sake of public quiet, resulting in a 5-minute whine fest complete with foot stomping and table banging.

I saw you shake your heads when my 4-year-old began shrieking that he wanted “just one more piece” of bread and butter after he had previously said he wanted none and the last piece had been gobbled up by my oldest child.

I saw your hands fly up to your mouths when my 8-month-old projectile vomited what could only be described as mashed carrot, formula, and stomach acid puree, the stench of which immediately permeated the air and undoubtedly wafted in your direction.


I saw you, couple who stared with disgust at my children in public. I saw you. And you know what?

I’m fucking with you.

These kids are a nightmare, what with their constant bitching and lack of volume control. A fucking nightmare. Seriously. I’m fucking dying over here.

Perhaps you misunderstood when I tried to sit down at your table after your appetizers had come, thinking I had mistakenly made my way back from the bathroom to the wrong table. I can only assume that’s why you, with brows furrowed, quickly dragged the one open chair at your table a bit closer and put your belongings on it, indicating the seat was taken.

Perhaps you thought I was joking when I asked if you’d like to do a shot or 20 – of anything, mind you: a Redheaded Slut, a Three Wise Men, a Cement Mixer for all I cared – and you shook your heads and looked down at your plates in confusion.

Perhaps you assumed I was only jesting when I mentioned that if you’d let me join you, I would consider selling one or all three of my offspring on the street, particularly if they complained one more time that their macaroni and cheese was too cheesy and their waters were too wet. But I wasn’t jesting. I was going to do it. I was this fucking close, I swear to God.

Perhaps you thought I was too nosy when I asked how you managed to score an evening on the town alone: Babysitter? Carefully orchestrated kidnapping? Homicide? “Tell me!” I begged you. “I must know your secret!”

Perhaps you thought I had mistaken you for someone else when I dipped my finger in your chocolate mousse, licked it off, and asked, in true Vince Vaughn style, if you wanted to get outta there together and make some bad decisions. *wink*

You see, couple who stared with disgust at my kids in public, I am at my wit’s end, hanging on to the last thread of a rapidly fraying rope, desperate for a night out where the only ass I have to wipe and the only vomit I have to clean up is my own. And let me tell you, couple who stared with disgust at my kids in public, with what I have planned, there will be plenty of ass and vomit for the lot of us.

I saw you, couple who stared with disgust at my kids in public. I saw you. And I would gladly give up my labia majora and my left nipple – the good one – if you’d just please, pretty pretty please, take me away from here to … anywhere. I’m not picky. I’ll go ANYWHERE.

Call me?

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