I’ve never written an open letter before, and quite honestly the lady to whom mine is written probably a) will never read it and b) wouldn’t realize it was directed at her if she did. However, I’m a little ticked, and what better and more mature way to deal with my anger than to share my business with the entire internet?
So, here goes…
Dear Judgy Broad in the Nail Salon,
I saw you, today, glaring at me as I tried to comfort my visibly upset seven-year-old daughter. I understand that the sound of her crying was probably jarring against the otherwise peaceful and relaxing Saturday morning salon atmosphere. What you and everyone else in the salon would not be able to know is that this girl rarely cries. She’s never been one to break out the waterworks just to get her way. Tantrums are not her thing – her preferred method of getting what she wants is open and frank discussion and relentless debate.
She was crying because she could not communicate with the lady doing her toenails. She was frustrated because she could not make the Korean-speaking nail technician understand how she wanted her toes painted, and the nail tech just did what she thought best instead of finding someone to translate for her. Unfortunately they were not of the same mind on what looked best, and my daughter did not like the way her toes turned out. It might have seemed like she was crying because she wasn’t getting her way, but what upset her was that she could not make herself understood.
Your disapproving stare and downturned mouth told me that clearly you disagreed with how I was handling the situation. Your look spoke volumes to me – and in the heat of the moment I was embarrassed both by the attention her crying attracted and the judgment I perceived in your look, not to mention the whispers and the under-the-breath comments of others in the salon.
I was tempted to say something to you – something snarky like “I suppose your children were perfect angels?” or “Is there a problem?” but I allowed my better sense to prevail. I smiled, like some sort of moron, and walked past, acting as if it was perfectly normal for a Saturday morning outing for pedicures to turn into an epic melt-down moment.
Why did I smile? Why did I ignore the looks and the whispers and the under-the-breath comments all around me? Because even in the midst of my embarrassment and discomfort, underneath the mama-bear in me that wanted to smack each and every smirk off of each and every hostile face in the room, on a deeper level I knew a few things.
#1 – Deep down in the sub-strata of my mom layers, where my rational thought resides, I knew that half of the whispers and comments probably had nothing to do with my crying child. To me, the sound of her crying was a deafening roar, drawing unsolicited attention and unfavorable opinions about what kind of spoiled child I must be raising. But to the rest of the salon, her crying was probably just a momentary distraction, quickly forgotten once everyone got back to their gossip and their gels.
#2 – I realized that it was possible that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t glaring at me thinking how your children would have never acted that way. Perhaps that’s just the way your face is. Perhaps you were looking at me thinking, “I like her blouse,” but you suffer from BRF. (It’s a thing, look it up) It would be unfair of me to pick a fight with someone who can’t help the way their face is.
#3 – Deep inside my heart of hearts, I knew that even if you thought my daughter was the most spoiled and bratty child you’d ever seen, and even if you and your face thought I was a horrible mother – I know the truth. I know that my child is challenging, opinionated and not at all afraid to ask for what she wants. I know that I am raising one (maybe two) of those “I’m not bossy, I have leadership skills” kind of girls. I know that her tears this morning were not about not getting her way, they were about the feeling of helplessness and desperation that come when you want nothing more than to make another person understand you, yet to do so is impossible. And I know that just knowing these things about my child makes me a good mother. Honoring the person that she is and the strength and determination I see in her character makes me a good mother. Stopping to understand the cause behind her behavior instead of seeking only to change or correct it makes me a GOOD MOTHER.
So, even if you were all judging me, it doesn’t matter. I don’t know you. I don’t owe you an explanation for her meltdown, or for my response. What you and your face think of me and my daughter does. not. matter.
I hope you enjoyed the rest of your appointment in peace and quiet. I hope that you had a blessed Saturday and that you and your face find an opportunity to smile today.
As for us, once my daughter felt ready to talk about it, we discussed alternate ways she could have handled the situation – asking the nail tech to get her mom, for instance.
Then, when we got home, I repainted her toes. Exactly the way she wanted them.
