Mrs. Jerkyface

Day 8:  Mrs. Jerkyface

I am pretty good at walking away from ignorance; Pretty good at ignoring those frustrating few who seem to persist in the aching stage of obliviousness.  But some days, you just want to walk up to those buttheads, shake them by their senseless heads and scream “REALLY?”  Like Mrs. Jerkyface yesterday.  I know.  Jerkyface doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but what did roll of my tongue isn’t quite appropriate for a semi-public forum.  So we’ll stick with Jerkyface.  Here’s what I have to say to her:

You, Mrs. Jerkyface at the grocery store, save your reproachful looks for someone who isn’t going to call you on it. Because I’m the type, and I’m pretty damn close to it. 

You’re staring at me and my boy, looking us over as if your judgments are invisible to us. 

Maybe you’re thinking he’s too big for the shopping cart.

Maybe you’re thinking he’s a fresh little boy, yelling at me to go back so he can touch the column we just passed. 

Maybe you’re thinking he’s strange, staring into space, talking away to himself. 

Maybe you’re thinking he’s a messy little thing, hair long past the time it should have been cut. 

Maybe you’re thinking I should tell him to stop his long, loud uninterrupted script.

Maybe you’re thinking, as I load my groceries into a second cart, pulling it along behind the one he is sitting in, that he is a lazy child. 

Maybe you are thinking he is rude, not answering the cashier as she asks him “How old are you?”

Maybe you’re thinking I’m a lousy mom, without control of my child, as he yells on our way out of the store because I went out the wrong door. 

I don’t know what you’re thinking as you stare at me with that smug look of disapproval, but I know what I’m thinking.  I’m thinking about all the things you don’t know.     

What you don’t know is that he fits perfectly fine in the shopping cart and it happens to be his favorite part of going to the grocery store.

What you don’t know is that he finds touching the columns throughout the store incredibly soothing, and I know this and try to slow at each one to let him glide his fingers along them as we pass.

What you don’t know is that he’s not strange, and what is staring into space to you is pensive in thought to me.

What you don’t know is that haircuts feel like razors slicing angrily through his head, so we let his hair grow as long as possible before we cut it.

What you don’t know is that even if I tried, I would be unable to stop his long, loud uninterrupted script.

What you don’t know is that if I allow him to walk along side me, instead of in the shopping cart, he will dart away, both within the grocery store, and out in the parking lot, unaware of the traffic and danger around him.

What you don’t know is that he does not even realize the cashier is speaking to him, nor does he know the answer to the question, “How old are you?”

What you don’t know is that while I don’t need your smile of approval for my son, I also don’t need your crappy stares.    

What you don’t know is that I would take you down in one felt swoop if you so much as utter a single derogatory word to or about my child.  I am from Dorchester.  Don’t tempt me.

What you don’t know is that, instead of dishing out disapproving stares, you ought to teach that little girl you are with something about awareness, acceptance, and compassion.  And you could teach her that right now, at this very moment.  But you don’t.

What you don’t know is actually quite a lot.  And you should know better.