At McDonald's

Since the kids have been super troopers throughout the last week of moving (Oh yeah!  We're in Texas now!), I decided to take them to burn some energy at the McDonald's Playland up the street, usually a dependable place to run around on car trips.  It was late and cold outside, so I figured we could eat and have a little bit of controlled chaos.

First of all, this McDonald's is not kidding with their Playland.  They have a whole dedicated wing of the store - more so than usual - with about 10 tables where families can eat while their 3-10 year olds play.  Okay, so Audrey is not even two, but she's always trying to keep up with Sebastian and she's normally even more courageous when it comes to slides and other kids, so we set up shop.

This particular Playland apparently caters heavily to the 7-10 year-old demographic, so we were outmanned.  There were about 8 other kids playing when we got there and the parents hanging around were speaking Spanish, Korean, and Japanese.  It was lovely and loud.  It became much louder when I had to stand by the stair tunnel while Audrey was in there and remind the big kids to be careful around her.  It didn't help that she kept trying to climb down head-first and I was almost completely powerless to get through the tunnel to correct her.

So this group of parents walk in with five more boisterous kids who immediately descend upon the Playland, hitting each other and shouting.  I extracted Audrey using some apple slices and went back to the table to assess the new situation.

My kids were eating happily at our table when a child (probably 6 years old or so) came out of the stairs crying - full mouth-open, tear-streating crying - with a big red mark on the side of his face.  His mom asked what happened.

"That little boy kicked me in the face," he sobbed.  The offender, one of the new arrivals, was already headed back into the tunnel with a snide look on his face.  The mother, rightfully, looked for the offenders mother.

"Excuse me," she said, somewhat apologetically, "Your son kicked my son in the face."

The offender's mother was shaking a ketchup packet.  She looked at the mom, then the hurt boy and loudly shouted across the room at him, "My son kicked you in the face?"

Up to this point, everything is completely normal.  Child is hurt, goes to parent, parent goes to other parent.  Ultimately, the plan is, quite obviously, that the other parent will clarify the situation and issue corrective action.  Completely civil, part of raising kids.  They hurt each other, accidents happen, and they learn and grow from it.

Anyway, she was at Step 4: Clarify the Situation: Have the hurt child explain what happened from his perspective.  She can see the large, red, shoe-shaped welt on this little boys tear-stained face.  He's speaking coherently in spite of the situation.  She asks so he can hear: "My son kicked you in the face?"

"Yes," he gulped.

"Well don't play with him then!" she shouted, then turned back to open her ketchup packet.

The room stopped for a minute as every parent in the room slammed their mouths shut and tried to keep their bulging eyes in their heads.  I mean, seriously, did that just happen?  Are we all here?  Did we just see that?  Aren't we all just trying to eat and let our kids play in a 10x10 space that happens to have a plastic slide?  SERIOUSLY?

I expected the whole room to clear in a flurry.  Or all the parents to rise up and say "No ma'am, this is not how we raise well-adjusted, kind children into well-adjusted, contributing citizens.  McDonald's Playland may be a no man's land, but while we are here, we are its lifeguards and we decide who needs to take an adult-swim-style time out from the pool."  I expected responsible revolution.

Nope.  Four of the tables didn't do anything.  They sat there, looking exhausted, and their kids kept playing.  The five new kids were loudly testing the limits of the bolts that kept the plastic apparatus together and probably pulling hair or hammering their shoes to get ready for the next smiling face.  The victim looked at his mom and she looked helplessly back at him.  Then he shrugged and went back into the Playland.

It took about two seconds for me to locate Sebastian, grab his arm, shove two apple slices in his hand and have our stuff together.  I did two other parents doing the same, slyly sneaking out the door with nary a backward glance.  One woman with a four-year-old and a newborn calmly placed the baby on her other hip and grabbed her tray to take to the trash.  I saw her a moment later speaking to the management while I ordered Aaron's dinner to take home.

Audrey was nonplussed.  Sebastian, on the other hand, was talking about when we could come back.  I told him I didn't know but that we had to go because some little boy kicked another little boy in the face.  "Oh," he said sadly, then looked at his hands and back at me, "Did I do it?"

"No, Darlin," I said, "I just didn't want you to get hurt too."  I felt relieved that he hadn't been hurt and super proud at his nicely developed conscience.  I hope that sticks around.

So as we get used to our new neighborhood in Texas, we're starting to recognize some landmarks.  We've driven by five times and, every time, Sebastian yells "Mom!  That's the slide where a little boy got KICKED in the FACE, Mom.  We have to play there another day."

Yeah, Bud.  We'll go back.  Once we have some backup.