The tables are turned

Today I was the rude one at the doctor’s office. Hayden and I were sitting by the television (because the first thing Hayden will tell you about the doctor is “Doc’tor? Wats deetee! [watch TV]!”). Another mother was checking in and her two children came to sit by the TV, too.

The older child, a boy about five or six, sat with Hayden on one of the little kiddie benches. The younger child, a girl about three years old, started picking up and moving the other kiddie bench a couple inches at a time, dropping her weight on it with each step.

It was one of those omniscient mommy instinct moments—I knew this wasn’t going to end well as she approached me. But I was trying to read a really great article (which I’ll probably write about soon, if I can find it on the Internet, or I’ll have to wait until I can photocopy it), so I didn’t pay quite enough attention.

Sure enough, within seconds, she hopped the bench right onto my foot.

“Ouch!” I said. “Please be careful!” (I might have even asked her to apologize, and she might have done it. Note that her mother was still busy checking in—I have far more patience with mothers who are actually clearly doing something that makes it difficult to monitor their children than mothers who are literally staring off into space instead of making sure their children aren’t hurting other kids/ME. Yeah, that happened.)

“That was my sister,” said the little boy.

“Yeah. . . .” I said. “And that was my foot.” I’m a terrible mother.