A Message For The Intolerant Sanctimommy In The Woman's Restroom
I get lots of things. I get people who want to right a wrong. I get people with a passionate stance on something I may or may not give two shits about. I get people who stand up for what they believe in. I get people who speak their mind in a respectful manner. I get people who occasionally entertain the obviously mistaken notion that kids are nothing but a bunch of inconsiderate jerkwads. I get people who are territorial and extra sensitive about personal bathroom goings on. I get people who like to enjoy a meal with friends at a Mexican restaurant on a Thursday night in the city just because a couple of margaritas and friendly camaraderie before the weekend sounds nice. Pass the chips!
Here is what I do not get: Grown-up assholes. Intolerance. Tactless idiots. Intolerant grown-ups who are idiotic tactless assholes. You.
It’s unfortunate that you picked me. There you went, though, profiling and waiting for me at the sinks. Had you known that I have years of repressed anger and rage just waiting for the tiniest excuse to take front and center stage, you most likely would’ve thought twice about engaging me. Instead you chose unwisely, poor thing.
The expression of disgust on your face is one that I truly hope you have some sort of control over. No offense, but if that’s how you feel all of the time then you have way bigger problems than sharing a sink with the Devil and her penis-carting offspring. Just sayin’.
Yep. He’s a boy…in the GIRL’S bathroom (GASP!). Hmmmmm, what to do??? I can think of a few things off the top of my head, but that’s just me. I like to think sometimes before I act. My raging TMJ would most likely disagree as gritting my teeth to the point of enamel corrosion isn’t super comfortable and/or fun by any stretch of the imagination, yet if I allowed myself to impulsively react prior to running shit through my prefrontal cortex, people would be hurt and my kids would only get to see their mother through a glass window on special occasions.
Let’s face it, that is not an ideal situation for anyone requiring clean socks and/or toilet paper roll replacement on a continual basis. They can’t survive without me! Plus, I don’t want to trade cigarettes for hand sanitizer.
You felt personally violated. You felt very offended. You felt so disrespected by me and my (“WHAT IS HE LIKE 11 YEARS OLD?!”) 7-year-old son who peed together in the privacy of our own tiny locked stall that you took it upon yourself to not put your energy towards a worthwhile cause like self-growth or proper post-piss hand hygiene but rather shame me for bringing my kid with a penis into the girl’s bathroom because he was scared to go into the other bathroom alone. What a little pervert! I mean look at him standing there looking up at his mother with wide glossy eyes desperate for some sort of reassuring sign that he is in fact not the antichrist disguised in a little league baseball hat. “Am I Mommy?”
Alas, hindsight is 20/20 and I have to admit that I’m super happy that this happened and here’s why. Teaching life lessons on the fly is my jam. At any rate, please let me assure you that, based on your impromptu bathroom intervention, I will not think twice about doing the exact same thing again because I hereby vow to support and protect my sweet deviant child in any/every capacity from now until my last life’s breath regardless of his sick and twisted second grade instincts toward middle aged women who enjoy humiliating young kids and bullying mothers whose only immediate life goal is to mind their own business and get over to the motherfucking soap dispenser without having to problem solve how to deal with a complete character assassination in front of a kid who really adores and looks up to her.
Surprisingly, here is where I express gratitude. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for providing such an important learning lesson for my son in what should’ve been a routine and very forgettable bathroom visit. Thank you for teaching him that not only does he have every reason to be petrified of going into a public restroom alone, but that he still needs his mother to protect him from miserable life-sucking human beings and remind him to wash his hands with soap and teach him how to appropriately respond to a steaming pile of unexpected bullshit with a bit of grace.
“Mommy got mad said a really bad word.”
Technically, I said more than one, but the important thing to note here is that I’m pretty sure my kid thinks I’m a total badass right now and I feel really good about myself. Pass the chips.
This article was originally published on