A few weeks ago I was at a crowded local lunch spot with my daughter when two young women, each with a three year old in tow, settled into the table next to us. I smiled at them, fondly remembering how much I had enjoyed outings like that when my own kids were small and feeling a distinct pang of wistfulness for those days. 

Just then, Toddler A hauls off and slaps Toddler B right in the face, prompting Toddler B to let out a wail of pain and indignation. 

Wistfulness over.

Mom B scooped up her little wounded pumpkin to coo comfort into his ear while Mom A stared at her son in frank horror.

“Timmy! Why would you hit Ethan? He’s your friend!” Timmy used his striking hand to shovel a fistful of cheerios into his mouth and stared at his bawling friend casually. Timmy’s mom pushed the cheerios away from him and covered his little fist in hers. 

“We do not hit people! You need to tell Ethan you’re sorry!” Now Timmy looked casually at his mom, then at the distant cheerios, then at his mom again, as if she had done him wrong for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Timmy made a dive for the cheerios.

“No,” Timmy’s mom said, his hand still firmly in her grasp. “Not until you say you’re sorry to Ethan.” Timmy turned a surprisingly grim face on his mother and tried to pull his hand away. “No!” he screamed.

When kids misbehave in public, we can choose to let it go . . .

Mom turned his highchair away from her and toward Ethan. “Say you’re sorry.” Timmy continued trying to wrestle his hand away from his mom and clapped his lips together, sucking them into his mouth. It was clear that this was a hill little Timmy was willing to die on and, thus, an epic clash of wills unfolded on a Tuesday morning at the Corner Bakery Café in Willow Grove.

Mom insisted, over and over, that Timmy apologize. Timmy contorted his body in the highchair, twisting it as if he was entirely made of cartilage, struggling to escape his mom’s grasp, and remained adamantly silent. By now, Ethan had fully recovered himself and was contentedly enjoying a pancake and the Timmy show. 

I sincerely doubt anyone else noticed the intense campaign playing out at the table next to me. My daughter was too invested in complaining about her econ professor, and I tried to keep my focus on her. But I couldn’t help but notice the battle fatigue setting in one table over. A deep blush had crept up Timmy’s mom’s neck and overtaken her ears. Ethan’s mom looked like she wanted to crawl under the table to die a peaceful death. And Ethan himself had grown board of the drama and instead clenched and unclenched his sticky hands as if trying to figure out how they had changed. 

. . . or hold the line.

After quite a protracted and quietly intense wrangle between Timmy and his mom, the toddler finally – FINALLY – caved. “Sorry,” he said, just barely nice enough to count as a sorry. Ethan’s mom prompted a quick “thank you,” before hastily escaping to the bathroom to clean up her syrupy son. Timmy got his hand and his cheerios back. Order in the universe had been restored at the cost of just one casualty: Timmy’s mom. She looked like a limp dishtowel. Exhausted and avoiding eye contact with all the other customers she imagined staring at her, judging her for making a scene, for having so little control over her son, for not having taught him manners by the ripe old age of three.

I had been in her spot so, so many times. Some minor conflict with one of my kids escalating out of control in public. Some horrible thoughts about what the other moms around me were thinking about me because, let’s face it, there’s judgment out there.

When you choose to hold the line, no matter the cost, you’ve taught you child what matters to you and your family

I so wanted to tell this steadfast but wrung out mom what I was really thinking. I wanted to tell her that some day – ten, fifteen, twenty years down the road – people will routinely approach her to say what a lovely son she has raised. I wanted to tell her that some of them will be younger moms, wanting to know what she did to bring up such a kind, respectful man. I wanted to tell her that, in that moment, so far from this one, she might well say that she didn’t know, that maybe he was just born that way. And she might even believe it, too. But she’d be wrong. I wanted to tell her that if she could look back on this random Tuesday in November from my vantage point, she would realize that her son’s character hadn’t been born but built, and that this was among the moments in which she had built it. 

I didn’t say any of that, though. She just didn’t look like she could handle it in that moment. So, sadly, she likely left the Corner Bakery Café that day weighed down by two misconceptions. 

And moms who’ve been there are silently cheering you on

First, that she’d made a scene at the restaurant. She hadn’t. I’m sure she felt every eye in the place boring into back, but the truth is it was a much bigger scene in her life than in anyone else’s. My daughter didn’t even notice. Second, that the whole thing was an embarrassment. That those who saw it thought less of her. Or less of her son. But I’m here to say that the older moms didn’t. They felt for you. They understood – better than you did – what was really at stake. And they silently cheered you on, silently admired your willingness to step into the fray to instill a value in that fine young man of yours. Because they’ve been ten, fifteen, twenty years down the road and know where it leads.