My Vomit of Thought: A McDonald's Epiphany

My husband and I took our son and his God-brother, Andrei, out for a quiet dinner last night—a little bit of elegant dining at McDonald's (don’t judge).  While I enjoyed my 3-piece Chicken Select (minus the fries) and my husband enjoyed whatever he enjoyed (what happens at McDonald's stays at McDonald's), I tried to find my happy place and relax—we had a pretty rough, long couple of days and I didn’t feel like cooking and couldn’t find the wherewithal to plan ahead. 

Suddenly, the serenity of the room was shattered and the dulcet sounds of Muzak and children’s laughter were silenced by a blood curdling cacophony of screams that reverberated off the Plexiglas and glass walls.  I startled from my revere by what I was sure must be the rapture, only to find the angelic face of a single two-year-old babe who’s mouth was shaped in a perfect O. 

I’m no stranger to McDonalds Play Place and I know it’s a place for kids to be kids—it’s a place for kids to have fun, learn forbidden vocabulary and share communicable diseases.  However, we are not talking about a forgivable handful of occurrences, but an innumerable, migraine-inducing amount of bring-you-to-your-knees screams (the type that would make Jamie Lee Curtis proud).  Unfortunately, the reproachful glances of the entire room seemed to either miss or be avoided completely by the parents’. 

I found myself staring at the back of the poor mother’s head, contemplating what she was thinking and if it was appropriate for me to say something.  I found myself wondering what type of parents’ would let their child behave so savagely.  Perhaps they didn’t know appropriate McDonald’s decorum (if there were such a thing) or maybe they didn’t care—were they the type of people who left dirty diapers in Wal-Mart parking lots?  I mean, what kind of people can be so unaware of an entire room’s discomfort?  I also contemplated whether the child may have a disability and wondered if I misinterpreted the parent’s faces—what I thought to be defiant and unapologetic may actually be exhaustion and fatigue.   

Each ear-splitting shriek brought me closer to the edged of my seat and precariously closer to opening my mouth—that fallible mouth that can frequently say the wrong things.  The horrified look on my husband’s face told me he knew I was thinking it too.  After all, these are the kinds of things those embarrassing little league fights between parents’ get started over—over something stupid somebody said.   

While I obsessed over the decline of western civilization, I also missed out on several things.  I missed out on reading my new copy of Rowling’s The Casual Vacancy.  I missed my son running into the germ infested bathroom barefoot.  And I missed my nemesis, the matriarch of the couple I had hated for the last 30 minutes, helping my son get his socks on!  I learned a valuable lesson too—judge not, lest ye be judged.