I was all set to write a letter to some lady at the park about her dumb little kid. It would have been great; my particular favourite was the line: "Your kid was being a little shit. I know this, because my kids can be little shits. But yours was shittier."
But she was young (-er than me, anyway). She was part of a group of friends that obviously hadn't seen each other for a while, and they were having what seemed to be a much-needed Vent and Visit while their kids were playing.
The fact that her daughter had teamed up with some other little dude and has zeroed in on the singular goal of chasing my kids out of the park with kicks and slaps and cruel words wasn't her immediate fault, although that behaviour had to have been practiced with dedication for it to have been perfected to such a degree.
And she was horrified that it happened, although I didn't stick around after the stair-pushing incident to find out if she thought I was some crazy over-protective Crazy Parent once she had time to talk to her friends about it.
So no angry "Dear Mother Who..." letter. Instead...
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Dear Little Shit in the park,
That look on your face, when you were eyeballing me over your mother's shoulder? I know that look.
You're a little shit.
Cut it out.
Love,
A Mother Who Doesn't Like Watching Her Kids Get Pushed Down The Stairs.
