Sometimes I think my husband and I are the town curmudgeons. Other parents seem to find a way to excuse or reconcile the wild antics of undisciplined children — we don’t. I don’t think it’s cute, appropriate or excusable.

A few weeks ago, we went to a school talent show and there was a 2 or 3 year old who proceeded to crawl around under the benches like a rabid squirrel on pop rocks and soda. It was so distracting that I asked a few times out loud, “Whose child is that?”, to no avail, and you wanna know what the other parent’s reaction was, as opposed to my annoyed (won’t someone spank her butt and take her outside?) reaction was?? It was met with smiles and giggles and, “Oh, isn’t she precious?”

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So, let’s get one thing straight: I don’t really like kids all that much.
 
OK, scratch that.
 
I don’t like YOUR kids that much.
 
I happen to really like my own. Just not yours.

 I happen to think my own child is perfectly hilarious when he farts loudly in public. I think it’s cute when he regurgitates sweet potato puree down the front of his miniature Cubs jersey.  I make others stare at him while I try to get him to make, “This face he made the other night that was so funny…Kevin, jump up and down again and see if he’ll do it…I swear, it was so funny.”
 
I do not think it’s endearing when anyone else’s kid does it. In fact? It’s pretty annoying. Actually? Your kid is bothering me. Please take it out to the car and give it a spanking.

When I was pregnant, I had lunch with a childless friend of mine. A toddler at the table next to us began throwing a temper tantrum, complete with screaming and throwing of toys. My friend rolled her eyes then caught my eye. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

I responded that she shouldn’t be apologetic; I found the child hideously annoying and just because I was having a child myself didn’t mean I suddenly became tolerant of children misbehaving in public. (I should also add I wouldn’t have been nearly as annoyed had the parents properly responded by whispering death threats through clenched teeth while yanking the kid out of the restaurant instead of laughing merrily and continuing to eat their sushi.)

As a parent, I think my child is just the bees’ knees.  I might even think your kid is cute, too.

As an adult, I’d like to enjoy my lunch without the child next to me screaming, “Fie truck! Fie truck! Gimme fie truck!”

I have to tolerate my own kid throwing tantrums. I shouldn’t have to listen to yours.  Now, I’ll do my part by hustling my kid out of any public place when screaming begins and refusing to submit to “Parent Brain,” a condition in which the second after a child is born the parents become blissfully unaware of any social disturbances little Joey is causing.

In short?

I love my kid. I just don’t have to love yours.

And that’s all which is required of a parent, no?