At my admin job, we run a concert series for preschoolers. My job is to show up early, make sure the performers have everything they need, check in with the box office, and then welcome all of the kids and their parents. This is usually a little crazy because our support staff (box office, stage manager, usher) routinely show up very late. But who’s complaining?
This morning was the last concert of this season. It just gets harder and harder to take. All the happy kids, whose moms and dads are younger than I am. All the babies tagging along in slings and car seats. All the pregnant moms.
This is unspeakably sad, and it brings out a side of me that I am less than proud of. I catch myself backseat-parenting:
- I would never dress my hypothetical 2-year-old daughter in skinny jeans.
- I would never ignore my hypothetical children while they knock over signs and generally cause mayhem.
- I would never feed my hypothetical child sugar and Coke right before a concert.
Yes, I am the queen of holier-than-thou, and yes, I know that life happens and shit happens and everyone is doing the best they can just like I would be. When I am my best self I would never (see what I did there?) judge someone else’s parenting choices (because hey, at least they managed to make a baby, which is more than I can say). But somehow when I’m sitting at these events, feeling like jumping off a bridge, my inner claws come out.