KID FRIENDLY

It’s Sunday, my son and I are at The Grove watching the choreographed water show. He’s in his stroller, tush dancing to “Celebration.” If Disneyland is the happiest place on earth, The Grove is the kid friendliest. At the Concierge desk, the childless can probably rent a stroller just to feel at one with the masses of shoulder length haired MILF’s pushing their Orbits and Bugaboos through the wide, flat streets that pave the way to retail heaven. The Grove is Los Angeles’ answer to Middle America, a fake sense of community with pristine streets and a choo-choo train. On particularly Middle American days, the MILFs make eye contact with the other stroller pushers. On holidays, they say “hello”, even if they’ve never met. The Grove isn’t just kid friendly, it’s friendly.

That’s why I’ve chosen to take my son to the Grove for the afternoon. We’re on a date, if you will, since his Dad has to work and my tolerance for the three parks on our rotation has grown thin. We’ll run a few errands then have lunch together and my boy will entertain himself with his favorite game, hurling food into the air or mashing it into the table. I’ll eat a decent lunch, giving him the occasional bite of food off my plate and other kid friendly eaters will walk by saying things like, “It’s such a great age” or “I’ve got 4 kids you’ll survive one.” I’ll smile, maybe even offer a, “It is a great age!” or “4 kids? You don’t look like you’re old enough to have one!” And then we’ll all giggle, smile, and nod knowing we’re kid friendly, in a kid friendly mall where mashed food, thrown silverware, and temper tantrums aren’t just tolerated, they’re welcome.

So when the host sits us at a table within close proximity to another patron’s, I don’t worry. No one here will bat an eyelash when my boy screams at the top of his lungs just to hear what it sounds like or channels his inner Ringo Starr by banging on the table like a drum. No one here will care because their kid just did the same thing to the table to the right whose kid just did the same thing and so on and so forth. We’re paying it forward, kid friendly style.

Next to us, a 6 year-old and her two Moms. The Moms are deep in conversation about one of the heavyset Mom’s latest auditions. “I really committed to my choice,” she states proudly. “I know the casting director really loved me.” Their daughter has a table full of stickers and she couldn’t be happier. Until…

“She’s scared of babies,” the short haired Mom tells me almost proudly as her daughter whimpers and hides to get away from my son’s gaze. “She doesn’t like them.”

Odd I think to myself. Why would a 6 year old be scared of a baby?

Well he’s not scared of you, I tell the girl, You can go ahead and say hello, he won’t hurt you. But the girl screams louder, the shorthaired Mom raising an eyebrow my son’s way as she repeats, “She doesn’t like them.” As if babies are demons and her daughter just got spooked.

My son stares at the screaming girl for a while before setting his sights on her stickers. He goes in for the kill, grabbing a long strip of gold stars. I grab them out of his hands, in part because he’ll eat them and in part because I want the two Moms and every other Mom within earshot to know that I’m not one of those Moms, who lets her kid run wild. I apologize and give the stickers back to the crying girl, but my apology is met with a blank stare before the two women return to their conversation about the heavyset Mom’s attempt at stand up comedy. I’m left wondering why the least funny people feel the need to get into comedy. But in light of the crying kid and the sticker incident, I keep my career advice to myself.

Lunch arrives and my son is distracted for a while with his food and my food and the floor. And then out of the corner of my eye, I see what he sees, a shiny silver cell phone, the baby mother load, at the Comedy Mom’s fingertips. The only thing that stands in between my son making a break for the cell phone are two porcelain salt and pepper shakers. At the age of 1, my son is no dummy, he knows that all he has to do is hurl those to the ground and he and the cell phone can be one.

Do you mind if I move these? I ask the two Moms sure they will say, “Oh no problem and why don’t I move my phone, here have a sticker!” Instead, the two women look at me, don’t say a word, and go back to their food. Do you mind if I move these? I ask again. It’s just that he’ll want to throw them and I’d hate for him to…

“Whatever,” the Comedy Mom says as she moves them across the table leaving her cell phone in its place, undoubtedly for that call from Spielberg whose scoured the world to find a heavyset 45 year-old comedienne with the charm and timing of Hitler. For a moment, I think I should suggest she move it, but then I don’t. If my son happens to grab her cell phone or happens to get food on it, well, whatever…

The two return to their conversation, undoubtedly about the Comedy Mom’s newest Can-Can routine, while exchanging a not so subtle eye-roll pointed in my direction. The eye-roll speaks volumes, saying loudly, “She’s one of those Moms….”

When I think of the word “tolerance”, I can’t imagine two people who could use it more than a family that consists of two Moms and their adopted dark skinned baby, but just because people preach tolerance doesn’t mean they have it. And apparently, just because someone has a kid doesn’t mean they’re tolerant of other people’s. Had we been dining at Spago, I could understand the disdain, but we’re at the Grove, Kool and the Gang is blasting, a kid nearby is holding a balloon animal. If you’re not tolerant of kids here, then you’re just not tolerant of kids.

I like to think that all parents are just trying to do the best they can. But when I come across parents like these ladies at The Grove, I’m reminded that an asshole with a kid is still an asshole. The kid may soften the blow, but a baby won’t make you tolerant.

And so it becomes clear that the kid with the stickers hates babies because her Moms do. Kids learn to like and dislike what their parents do. My kid will probably love The Dave Matthews Band, Rufus Wainwright, Neil Diamond, sushi, the South of France, and bad reality TV, just like I do.

And he’ll definitely hate assholes with kids, just like I do.

We pay our check, leaving a generous tip in anticipation of the server’s time spent cleaning up the floor mat of Sweet N Low’s, courtesy of my one year-old, and we get up to leave. We head outside where the sun is shining, the water fountain is dancing, and Lou Rawls is singing. A woman and her two daughters walk by, look at my son, and say, “What a great age!” I look at my boy, then respond, “You know what, you’re right. It is a great age.”