Been sitting on this one a while.

We had a snow day on Wednesday (number 8, for anyone who is keeping score). J had an appointment in Columbus, A had school, so the girl and I went to the big city for a little doctoring and a little shopping. We went to a big, new, suburban mall and I immediately knew it was a mistake.

As D said… “They were all there, weren’t they?”

The “they” to whom he was referring was the army of perfectly coiffed, manicured, svelte, smiling mothers dressed in their designer clothes and fashionable shoes. I dodged strollers containing perfectly-behaved children with trendy names who were snacking on healthy finger foods, all the while dragging my asthma-afflicted, wheezing and hacking 3 year-old to the big department store to buy some pillows and an electric griddle. We had a little bit of “girl time” to eat lunch in the food court, where I was made to feel like an awful mom because I work and can’t bring my kid(s) to mall playdates on a daily basis, plus I’m far from trendy, don’t wear designer clothes, and probably do a lot of other things of which my children ought to be ashamed. I watched moms speak in sing-songy voices to their children who were climbing all over the food court furniture about how “that’s not OK,” and nary a cross or stern word did I hear. All the while I felt smaller, and smaller, and less worthy and more like an awful mom because I occasionally (OK, frequently) lose my cool and use a tone of voice that I shouldn’t with my kids. I don’t always explain to them why climbing on a public table where other people eat their food is “not OK,” I just bark out the order to “GET DOWN,” and they get my drift.

Oh. And I forgot all about the little girl in the doctor’s waiting room who was no older than J (3, for those of you keeping score) and dressed in the most adorable little matching outfit of dress, tights, and mary janes (the snow outside was about 5 inches deep). She danced around the office waiting room and her mother announced, “I know this looks like a nice big place that would be so fun to run in, sweetie, but you can’t. It’s not OK.” Then she proceeded to guide the little girl over to a chair, pull a book out of the child’s monogrammed backpack and say, “Now, let’s look and see what continent you’re missing.”

Are you even kidding me? Freaking CONTINENTS?! Seriously. Did that woman think that I was interested enough to care that her preschooler knows the continents? Am I supposed to be impressed? With the child? Or the doting mother? Am I supposed to feel like less of a parent, or that I don’t love my kids, or that my kids are doomed to a life of failure because they haven’t mastered world geography before they enter school?

So sorry. But I can’t bring myself to limit J’s imaginative play with her princesses and dollhouse so that I can teach her basic math facts and state capitals. I won’t make A read books prescribed for him in place of the Pokemon books that he clearly enjoys much more. I refuse to inject myself into their happy play schemes and self-designed constructs just so that I can “feel involved.” I will not insist on their mastering academic skills because someone else makes me feel like I have to…and at the expense of their childhood.
RE-freaking-LAX, PEOPLE!! Because you make those of us who do not engage in hyperparenting feel as though we ought to, and our kids would not thank you for that. And they certainly wouldn’t be better off for it.