Hey there, how's about taking that stick out of your arse and LIGHTEN UP

So the Thomas obsession continues. My son carries his little Thomas and Percy engines around the house with him almost criminally, tucking them under his arm and skittering around without putting them down for a solid hour. I'm glad he's got a "thing"...this is the first time he's been really passionate about something in his young life.

He's been talking about the Thomas train table that they have at Barnes and Noble, so we took him down there on Sunday morning. He loves it, he plays very intently for a good hour until we have to resort to using bribes to get him out of there without throwing a big, fat tantrum. I always pray that there won't be a lot of people there, is that bad? I just have a hard time dealing with other parents, especially when my son is involved in interacting with their children, a situation that always runs the risk that little Tommy might receive a stray head-butt or little Sally being taken down in a mini-linebacker sort of way. So far we have been pretty lucky that the past few visits didn't entail many others and their kids milling around the train table area, thus having the place to ourselves.

This particular Sunday he was in rare form. I'm talking Academy Award-winning performance. From the minute we arrived it was like someone rolled out the red carpet for this kid. We swept into the kid's section at the back of the store, sparkling paintings of Pooh and Curious George and the little bird from Are You My Mother? on the walls, the displays of easter and spring-related books. Our boy sailed past all that kid stuff, he was going for the big guns. Until, that is, he was stopped by the paparazzi. Three little girls surrounded him, not saying anything, all looking at him with a little-girl pout as they sized him up, closing in on him. I imagine flashbulbs popping as he grabs my leg. "I want my mommy', he said, hiding his face. Sweet little baby. The paparazzi never said a word.

Anyway he quickly recovered and stormed off in the direction of the train table. Only two kids there. Eureka! I relax. I didn't even NEED that mild tranquilizer! Upon arrival our son quickly seizes Thomas and Percy off the table, eyes darting left and right. "These are my trains mommy, okay? Okay mommy? Yes, okay" he says, giving himself permission. He clutches them close and inches around the table, scouting for anything else he might need to claim as his. A mom and her eighteen month old chat with us. Son continues to be adorable and well-mannered. A little girl offers him a coal car and he says "Nope, no thanks. I've got my Thomas and my Percy". He don't need no stinkin' coal car. I continue to relax and can't believe our good luck that there are once again, not many people there.

However, it doesn't take long for the masses to show up, all slurping their Starbucks' drinks. Parents of toddlers act as if Barnes and Noble is one of the million state parks we have, except in winter and you know, indoors. They bring backpacks, picnic baskets, sippy cups, a fire pit, lawn chairs, don't forget the keg tap - I mean, these people are camped out! And don't forget their supercalifragilistickexpialidocious mocha choco-latte or whatever. I sit perched on a kid-sized chair, my coat still on, my scarf at my chin (I concede to my husband and pull it down from my eyes when he shoots me a dirty look). Can you feel the paranoia? I am back in fifth grade, standing in a large gym and feeling very small as they picked players for kickball. As they chatted around me sitting in the lunch room. Standing in the courtyard after class. Oh, I had friends (no really, I did!), but there was always that urgency of wanting to feel accepted. Playing nice and kissing butt to whoever could get you the farthest, let's face it.

So then you throw children into the mix. Now you have to be responsible for another person's behavior, as well as your own, and sometimes your spouse's I suppose. For the most part, our son is a pretty good boy. He gets hyper and nutted up and my husband and I are the only ones not totally irritated with what he's doing. I am still working on bringing him on outings, I only do what feels safe (don't we all?), and usually it turns out I've overreacted once again and he acts great and everything goes fine.

So things are going rather splendidly and my husband takes the opportunity to, well, throw me overboard, if you will and go look for those ever-loving science fiction books. I know I won't see him again. He's leaving me to fight the battle alone. My small rowboat rocks gently in the water, I wait for the giant wave that will surely be loooming above me soon to sweep me and my rickety boat out to sea.

Son decides to get punchy after Daddy leaves. This is typical behavior of the little monster species. He decides to pick and choose at the table of who he's going to be nice to. He says "no" and "go away' to two little kids. Of course it had to be the asian kid and the fat kid that he snubbed. Once again typical. I see the parents' accusatory glances our way. At least I think they are looking at me. Oh of course they are, let's be honest. Profuse sweating tells me we have to wrap up the visit soon and start to decide which bribe I should use and at what juncture. The fruity little snacks usually win out. I haven't yet had to bribe with chocolate. I'm proud of this. I snap out of my rice-vodka hangover (oh yeah here's a tip - if someone offers you a shot of rice vodka don't drink it for gods sake, and certainly don't drink TWO) when I see that the boy has slipped off a little stool. I hold my breath to see if he's going to freak out or not. Nope, he's fine. He hops up onto his feet and dusts himself off. "Oopsie daisie! Guys? I FELL ON MY HINEY CRACK!" he tells everyone, million dollar smile lighting up the room.

I end up snarfing my bottled water as I choke out a laugh and then immediately realize all eyes are on me. What's my reaction, what's THE MOTHER going to do? The little people running the control room in my head go berserk. Lights flashing, alarms sounding. I can't think of anything to say. "Well, you fell on your fanny, how about that" I say. glancing around at the others for approval. "No, mommy", he says very calmly, then looks around at everyone, making sure he has the attention of the room. He sweeps his arms wide and crows, "I fell on my HINEY CRACK!" He screeches the last word, which sounds like "quack", then claps his hands and lifts himself up on his toes, arms out, waiting for his applause. All the other parents are silent. All of their kids could care less.

I start to feel bad for him although he doesn't seem affected by their reactions in the least, thank goodness. I dread the day his feelings get truly hurt for the first time. I show him the Backyardigans fruit treat I've been hiding in my pocket and, like a little robot, he automatically he drops Thomas and Percy, takes my hand and walks out with me, chattering about his "special treat".

In the car on the way home the self-doubt sets it. How is it that my son knows the term "hiney crack"? Why am I holding myself personally responsible for what should really be a funny story that those uptight SOB's at B&N will share with their family and friends later? Why do I give a hang what people I don't even know think about me? Sometimes, I feel like parents, including myself, are quick to point the fingers at others in order to make themselves feel a little bit better about their own style of parenting. Does anyone ever feel truly secure as a parent? If so I would really like to meet you. I can list nearly every decision I've made in the last 2 1/2 years concerning my son that seemed like a good idea at the time but alas, turns out it was not, and I've really beaten myself up over it. He's still okay, growing like a weed, no broken bones, etc.

I guess I just have to resign myself to the fact that I'm doing the best I can, and I can't protect my son from every little thing that might not be the best for him to learn. He will always be exposed to other children, which means he will always be picking up things here and there from him. I should feel good that he didn't slip off of that little chair and go "Fuckin'-A, I just fell on my frickin' ass!"

I'm working harder on bringing myself out of the fifth grade, out of that gymnasium, that cafeteria where insecurities run rampant. I am proud of my son and his 2 1/2 year old epiphanies. We will go back to Barnes & Noble, and if I get any attitude well, they can just kiss my hiney-quack.