April 25, 2013

That's right. I'm judging you with my judgy eyes.

It looks so happy. So benign.
When I enter the doors of McDonalds, I leave my kindness, my compassion, my ability to reason on the sticky sidewalk outside. I become a walking tower of nastiness, my ugly heart immediately festering with airborne food preservatives and decades-old MSG vapor.

I become Judgy McJudgerson, the hateful mom who eats villains like the Hamburglar for breakfast.

ME: Who buys a Happy Meal for a child for a SNACK?
(Nevermind my kids softly stroking the toy display case with intense covetousness, and Jannika's pleading whisper, "Do you remember that one time when I was Silas' age, and you said we could one day get a Happy Meal? Please can I get a Happy Meal on my birthday? Please? Maybe when I'm ten? Or maybe a teenager? Or maybe I could just watch that girl over there unwrap hers? Please can we sit near her?")

Look at us, just getting Fruit 'N Yogurt Parfaits. Really, everyone - LOOK AT US.
(Nevermind this is the score www.foodfacts.com is giving us:
That's right. The lowest grade I ever got on anything in my life...except for maybe my end of the marriage compatibility test Rob and I took during our one session of premarital counseling...)
I bring my kids here for exercise. They burn so many calories they leave as sweaty messes.
(And they leave with pink eye. And with crunchy dried urine on their hands. And with once-white socks that are now either poop brown or the color of upchucked artificial flavoring.)

Look at these poorly-parented hellions all around us. They are OUT OF CONTROL. Knock it off, you little bugger! Are you kidding me? You think I'm joking? I'll take your hamburger that ISN'T ALLOWED ON THE PLAY STRUCTURE and shove it down your streptococcus-infected THROAT!
(Nevermind that I've become the crotchetiest old lady known to playlandkind and I'm actually shaking some invisible cane while hunched over my Fruit 'N Controversially Flavored Yogurt of Death Parfait. Nevermind I'm "relaxing" while glaring at both parents and ill-behaved kids alike, and my blood pressure is through the roof, and I'm drunk on nastiness and spite.)

You are seriously pushing your kid to finish her shake because she "asked for it"?
(Okay, I'm totally in the clear on this one - NEVER PUSH YOUR KID TO FINISH HER SHAKE BECAUSE SHE ASKED FOR IT. Especially if she also asked for - and you actually bought her - a supersized combo meal. Especially if she's murmuring, "I just don't feel good." Because she might vomit in the parking lot. And I might find it two seconds too late. And Silas might step in it. And I might feel completely justified being Judgy McJudgerson forever and ever. Amen.)

I think I need a vacation.


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