The hot, frothy cappuccino barely touched my lips before I placed it gently back into its saucer, looked across the café, and gave one of those parental death stares to the two young terrors acting like the restaurant was their own personal playground. One child hit the other over the head and the other screeched in mock pain and squeezed out some theatrical tears. The mom didn’t even look up from her phone to acknowledge this budding thespian. I rolled my eyes and slipped on my headphones to daydream about what I’d do to them if they were my own children. I quickly forgot that at one time I also had children that age. I scolded myself for behaving like those cranky adults who seem to enjoy parenting other people’s kids in public. I needed to learn how to mind my own business. 

A minute later I glanced up again, not believing that the two kids were now dodging chairs and tables like expert gymnasts in an action-packed game of ‘tag.’ The hand of one terror opened wide and muffin crumbs sprayed in an arc all over the restaurant floor while the other child laughed hysterically and ran the length of the long, narrow space. Mom took a sip from her smoothie as a blueberry rolled under my chair and laid to rest at my foot. I surveyed the room to see if there were secret cameras creating a social-satire movie, but no hidden film crew jumped out from behind a plant saying I was being pranked. Everyone around me seemed oblivious, unbothered, and not the least bit uncomfortable – except for me. 

Despite giving myself a list of reasons these children were simply behaving as children do, and freely admitting their attention-seeking behavior was probably warranted out of boredom or exhaustion; I still couldn’t temper my frustration. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more attached toward old-school rules, manners, and social order in public spaces. I think I’m reaching the American Association of Retired Persons (AARP) threshold for receiving my first mailer and will no longer be invited to mingle freely where loud music is the norm and little kids are welcome. 

The philosophy of collective parenting seemed like an immediate solution to these children gone wild. It serves to strengthen the village and share the responsibility – so the parents don’t lose their minds. So I wouldn’t lose mine, I wanted to step in and take the whole “It-Takes-a-Village” idea and get those kids on a structured behavioral support plan or simply duct tape them to their seats. I took another sip of my cappuccino and looked incredulously around the restaurant again. Still, no one met my gaze. 

After some thought, I decided the kids were not to blame. I suspected the problem was me. Somewhere along the path toward enlightenment, I’ve become less flexible and less forgiving in multi-generational spaces. Now that my kids are grown, I’ve also developed amnesia at having once occupied an entire row of a transcontinental flight to use as my children’s kindergarten classroom. They eventually stormed the aisle of the plane with fistfuls of crackers as an earned ‘recess’ from their seats. Then I promptly ordered two cocktails and somehow lost my hearing for the remainder of the flight. Seemingly overnight, I had become the one observing other parents and their parenting style instead of acknowledging that I was once an overwhelmed mom about to strangle her kids in front of a hundred witnesses. 

I was beyond relieved when Mom gathered her things to leave. Decorum would be restored and I could dine in peace. Mom clutched her smoothie while she wrangled the two kids, then assisted grandpa to the restroom, and juggled all of grandma’s belongings. She barely made it out the front door before I realized the load she was really carrying. I immediately felt her exhaustion and recognized her juggling responsibilities. I was immediately embarrassed by my initial reaction toward her family. I took another sip of my drink hoping someone would recognize my about-face. 

When it was my turn to gather my belongings and go, I grabbed my headphones, picked up some crumbs from the floor, and read the sign on the restaurant wall that I’ve overlooked for years. “All unsupervised children will be given an espresso and a puppy.” Instead of wanting to follow through on this restaurant’s cheeky promise, it now made me laugh. I realized that the community village isn’t always there to correct strangers’ children, we can also choose to extend a little grace by offering a smile in solidarity; and although it’s not an adorable puppy, it’s an acknowledgement that we’re all in this together.

Andrea Chacos lives in Carbondale, balancing work and happily raising three children with her husband. She strives to dodge curveballs life likes to throw with a bit of passion, humor, and some flair. She can be reached at andreachacos.com.