For today’s lesson, let me fill you in on a little background information. I work as a waitress, or a server (for those who would prefer it), and I see plenty of kids come in and out of my restaurant. Almost daily, I learn another reason why I shouldn’t ever raise one. However, sometimes it’s the parents that teach me more than the children.
In my restaurant, we have large, six-person booths, and when I say ‘six-person,’ I mean it. So you can assume my disgust when I glanced at my section to see a family of four sitting in one. Oh, and let me describe this family for you, because four is really generous. A mother, a father, and a small girl sat in the booth, while an infant hung off the side of the table and into the aisle, by a small contraption that resembled a backpack with arms.
Six people. Four people. Three people. Whatever.
Already expecting the parents to be, well, picky, I greeted the table and took drink orders before retreating to the kitchen to sigh heavily. In my store, we give the children little styrofoam cups, with lids and straws, so they don’t spill or drop the drink, which might break the heavier glasses. This particular princess ordered Sierra Mist (we serve Sprite, sweetie, but you won’t know the difference) and was told that she could “only have it today, and then no more.”
Sure, mom.
Making my way back to the family, I set the cups where I could reach, since the table is literally too big to serve everyone properly, and because little Sierra Mist was on the opposite end of mine with very short flailing arms, she couldn’t reach her cup.
Note, I did that on purpose. If you have ever served a beverage or a meal directly to a child before, you have probably gotten your head bit off by the mother or father, who clearly would prefer to handle it first.
This mother did not.
So, naturally, I heard a screeching yell and then an obnoxious, “Hey, Lady!”
I smiled politely and handed her the drink, while her parents didn’t even look up from the menu.
The meal went okay, and eventually, they were ready to leave. The mother had scooped up the baby-in-a-bundle and taken him/her (gotta love gender neutral colors!) to the car already, and little Sierra Mist sat with her dad in the army-sized booth. I dropped off the check to her father, letting him slide his credit card into the slot, when I caught her out of the corner of my eye.
She had stuck her straw through the base of the styrofoam cup, and Sprite was pouring out in a never-ending stream.
It was all over her, all over the humongous booth, all over the table, and sure enough, all over the floor.
Mind you, three out of four, I would have to clean.
Her father let out a pathetic “drop it” and she set the cup down, staring at me with a smile. I grabbed a rag from my coworker in the booth next to mine, and asked the little girl to move so I could stop the mess. She crawled out of the booth, and didn’t stop smiling until her father grabbed her and hissed a reprimand at her.
He never even got out of his seat. Didn’t offer to help. Didn’t even stand to get a look at the damage, which he would have to do if he wanted to see, since the table was a city block long.
The more I wiped, the bigger the mess. I told him I was going to use his napkin for a moment, as if I was being rude, and let the cloth soak up the liquid as I crawled back out of the booth.
I stood, brushing myself off and waiting for an apology, when I realized it was never going to come. I went to the closest screen and ran his card, returning to the table and finding him gone.
He was waiting for me at the door.
Oh, I’m sorry sir, is your table too sticky to sit at? Wonder why.
I had to stand next to him as he filled out the slip with my tip on it, which… if you aren’t a server, you honestly don’t know how awkward that is. He couldn’t even pull off eighteen percent, which is already a disgrace in my place of work, but for the mere fact that I have to clean the mess his princess just made, and how embarrassed he should be, I expected to see at least twenty.
Naturally, my rage became overwhelming as I walked into the kitchen, and I unleashed once I heard the door swing.
I won’t rehash all that, because it was an illogical mess of obscenities. What I will tell you, however, is the lesson I learned about why I would make a terrible parent in that situation.
1. Discipline
I would have beat the piss out of that little girl, and that’s not right. My instincts and attitude would honestly propel me to use corporal punishment of the umpteenth degree right there in the middle of the restaurant, and that’s unacceptable. The natural reaction I have to a situation like that one should not be related to the pick-your-switch mentality, and it is, plain and simple. Sure, I probably would have helped the server. Sure, I probably would have tipped better. But that’s not being a better parent. It’s being a better citizen. The parenting part, I would have failed. Epically.
And so, that day in history taught me that I should hold off on having children, until I can control my temper enough to see that she was just a kid, being a kid, doing what kids do. Even typing that now makes my blood boil. I expect kids to act like adults, which is ridiculous. And the fact that I would beat the maturity into them makes me a poor choice for a parent.
classickace 