Back in December I blogged briefly about a really painful conversation with the mother of one of my kids' friends. At the time I estimated that I deserved about 30% of the wrath she directed at me: my kid exercised bad judgment in her home, I followed up with the kid but not with this other mom, and when the same kid had an absent-minded moment a few days later the mom flipped out. I mean she FLIPPED OUT. It was ridiculous.
All jumbled up with her legitimate frustration was this other crud that I found very frustrating. She left an academic career to stay home with her kids. She thinks I am prioritizing career above children, and she felt compelled to remind me that my children need me. Oh, the earnestness with which she told me that they love me -- as if this had escaped my notice. Also mixed in: she thinks I am dangerously negligent because I have free-range kids. She told one of my kids, in all seriousness, that it would be irresponsible for her to permit said kid to sit alone on our porch for five minutes because of kidnappers. I might be heedless of my children's safety, but dernit, she would shield them from the bad guys on my behalf.
So. If you happened to think that I might be some sort of neighborhood parenting guru, let me assure you there are divergent opinions around here on the quality of my mothering.
It's complicated, though, because of the kids. I'm not willing to say that I will never interact with her again, because that would cause avoidable distress. Our kids miss each other keenly when they don't spend time together. Yesterday my youngest invited her youngest to come to the library with us.
Our library is a friendly place and my youngest kids have been going there since they were tiny babies. Pete and I were looking for books downstairs; Stella and the neighbor girl wanted to go upstairs. "Okay, girls," I said to them as they waited by the elevator, "I'll met you up there in just a minute."
Neighbor Girl turned to Stella, her eyes wide. "We're going in the elevator BY OURSELVES?" she gasped. Reader, she lived to tell the tale.
I hope, though, that she didn't tell that particular tale to her mother. I'm already in a deep enough hole.
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