It takes a village...

So, the missus and I took the two little ones (two and four years old) to Bastille Days in Milwaukee on Friday afternoon. The four-year old was a pretty good girl for the most part; cute and a little precocious; status quo. The two-year old, however, could not be pleased. He was likely upset about the recent homophobic rhetoric spewing from Michelle Bachmann's gaping hole of a mouth. While the two-year old is really more of a libertarian than liberal, he really gets up in arms about the Christian Conservatives.

Anyway, we figured he could be calmed perhaps by a cold and creamy scoop of chocolate custard. So, we made our purchase and went on a search mission for seating that would allow for the four of us. The only place we could find was an octagonal picnic table upon which sat a gentleman and, presumably, his wife. The table would comfortably accommodate twelve to fourteen people, so with the current occupants plus we four, we could still fit in a basketball team and its coach. Before we sat, I asked courteously if the couple would mind if we did. The wife smiled, "Of course," and she waved her hand benevolently over the expanse of the table.

The two-year old was having none of the ice cream bribery. Worse, he began getting a little tantrumy. Grunting turned to whining. Whining turned to moaning. Moaning turned to screaming. All this in the matter of three minutes, perhaps. The missus and I were beginning to reach our wits end. She quickly snatched up the boy and carried him away from the table. She must not have acted quickly enough.

The gentleman whom had been sitting at the picnic table slammed his drink to the ground, shook his head and stormed away from his wife. She stared for a moment at him, then followed. He peered over his shoulder at me and shook his head again.

"What?!" I asked. "Is there a problem?"

He kept walking away.

I offered politely, "Because if there is a problem you should make me aware. I'm sure you're not shaking your head at me or my son, because if you were, we would certainly have a disagreement; you and I."

The wife was saying something to him.

"It's a FUCKING festival, dipshit! You thought you'd never hear a kid throw a fit? That Bastille Days was for grown-ups only?" I offered constructively. "It's in your best interest to keep walking, clown shoes. Just keep walking."

Oddly, the gentleman never did engage me in meaningful discourse regarding the behavior of my son.

OK. I get it. Parents who take their toddlers to public events or restaurants should be prepared for some pushback. I don't particularly care to hear tantrums and fits when I'm out for some social activity. In fact, when I leave my kids at home, it's because I don't want to deal with them. I don't even like my kids. Why should I expect complete strangers to tolerate them?

Here's the deal. You don't have to tolerate my kids, let alone like 'em. That said, if, on a Friday afternoon, when you should be at work, and there is a public festival, or if you go out to dinner at a family restaurant, or if you fly on an airplane, or go to the mall....be prepared to hear the occasional toddler making a fuss. It's a natural and normal occurrence. Also, be prepared, if you find it necessary to put on a display of disapproval, or to stomp your feet, or to put the stink-eye on...be prepared to be called on it by a parent who doesn't like it anymore than you do.