Oh, I'm Sorry. Are My Kids Bothering You?

While reading the endless back-and-forth commentary on the scourge of children misbehaving in public—thereby inconveniencing strangers who deserve to move through the world completely unencumbered by loud noises, erratic movements, or people with developing brains—I realized that my own children are almost certainly guilty of these offenses. In fact, looking back over the last sixteen years of parenting, I can recall countless moments when my children—and also, my nieces and nephews—have annoyed other people in public. For that, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies.

To the woman who became upset when my two-year-old son accidentally bumped into her while trying to get a better view of the airplane outside the window: I am so sorry. You’re right—it was unreasonable to expect you to share a five-foot-wide window with a toddler experiencing pure, unfiltered aviation joy. Obviously, only one person is entitled to gaze at the Boeing 787 on the tarmac, and you were there first. Never mind that you are in your sixties and have probably encountered an airplane or two in your lifetime. Of course— no problem. I will immediately drag my small son, kicking and screaming, away from the window, so that you can have an unencumbered view. I wouldn’t want his enthusiasm for commercial aviation to continue to disturb you.

To the man who glared and hissed “SHHH!” at me and my eighteen-month-old daughter when she began a tantrum in the middle of church—I am exceedingly sorry. But you see, she has a disability. It’s called “being eighteen months old.” But, you’re right: church is no place for a small child. We will see ourselves out immediately. Please don’t worry; we won’t burden you with our presence again. We must have misunderstood all that talk about Jesus loving the little children and saying, “Let the little children come to me.” Clearly, what He meant was as long as they do so quietly and without expressing any emotions. I did notice that your pews and collection plates look a little empty. But no matter, we can find another church to belong to, since children clearly aren’t welcome here.

To the librarians enforcing “65+ library hours,” I am so sorry for bringing my sixth-grade daughter to pick out a few books. No, I didn’t see the sign. I foolishly assumed that a child who hadn’t attended public school in person for an entire year due to COVID lockdowns might benefit from choosing something new to read. That’s on me. Never mind that everyone over sixty-five had access to vaccines months ago, or that by now it is common knowledge that children are among the least likely to contract or spread COVID—we will see ourselves out immediately. No, unfortunately, I can’t just come back later. I need to go pick up my sons from their private school, the one I began paying for when public school shut down and my kindergartener was asked to attend class via an iPad. But, my apologies for the inconvenience caused by this potentially germ-ridden child. Don’t worry too much—she has barely left the house in a year.

To the woman reading a book in the shallow end of the pool at Grandma’s condo association, who asked that my seven-year-old niece and eight-year-old nephew please not make any splashes: I am so sorry. A library book, you say? My goodness. The horror. The potential fine. How cruel of my nephew to consider a cannonball in the general vicinity of someone who chooses to read paper literature while partially submerged in communal water. You’re absolutely right—it is wildly unreasonable to expect to get wet at a pool, especially one where children play all the time. I will, of course, let my brother know that he needs to invest immediately in private diving lessons so his kids can learn to enter the water in a splashless, dignified way. Our sincerest apologies for this shocking failure to anticipate that going to a pool with children risks getting other people wet.

Gosh, I have so many more stories about the times my inconsiderate, poorly disciplined children have inconvenienced others in public, but there is simply no way to catalog them all here. So please, to anyone who has been wronged by my children’s existence, accept my sincerest apologies. When they are—who knows—designing the bridge that doesn’t collapse beneath you, treating your various ailments as a healthcare provider, and paying a solid thirty percent of their income to fund your Medicare and Social Security, I hope that will make it up to you.