Down at the sports centre Leo is at a party in the main hall and I'm nursing a coffee in the bar, dodging the competitive mummies who circle the place like vultures in stilettos, skewering the weaker parents with killer questions.
Maybe it's me, but "Does Leo have special needs?" is a question I'd accept with equanimity only from my mother (though, as she's dead, I would be very, very surprised) or a close friend, and not always then.
But it's asked by a woman I scarcely know and not even prefaced by 'How are you?' or 'Nice to see you.' Call me Mrs Picky, but I reckon that curiosity this naked needs the decent covering of an opening conversational gambit, no matter how flimsy.
I make a non-commital answer, which in the hands of a good translator would almost certainly win the 'Best use of epithet' national award with a strong chance of sweeping the board in the world finals, and shoot her dead with the small, pearl-handled revolver I always carry with me for just these sorts of emergencies, together with a Get out of Jail Free card and a suicide pill.
Well, I would shoot her dead, but for my last minute gun for Pak-a-mak trade. It's a decision I now regret, though it was based, entirely logically, on the shortage of handbag space and the local forecast, which predicted persistent heavy rain but only sporadic outbreaks of casual violence, dying away from the West by early evening.
So instead, I'm sitting on the plastic banquette, wondering how long it would take to passive-smoke the other mother to death, or disembowel her with a coffee stirrer, assuming she stayed still for the several days that would be required to make the initial incision.
We're all victims now, old and young, big and small, carrying round our traumas like open sores, pointing out the particularly good suppurating bits to whoever will listen, and I rather assume that's what encourages relative strangers to ask whatever question they damn well please on the basis that whatever the hurt, it's better out than in
Well, bollocks to that. If I want to show off my sores, I will. In the meantime, I'll keep them well bandaged. And Leo's problems will be known only to me, you, and the schoolfriends of Beth's who have linked via her blog to mine and told their mothers.
And that leaves........Do stop it, Mum. I've told you before. Spin in your grave that loudly and you'll wake the kids up again.
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24 comments:
How strange people you know are.. I guess she meant well?
Honestly - some people are so rude.
You could always reply 'Its Mrs Cow, isn't it? Or can I call you Nosy?'
You do not owe this woman any explanations.
Hi, Mutley and Drunk Mummy. What worries me, though, is what if all these people are in fact completely normal and it's just me who is odd? Still, as long as I continue to hold down part time job as a teacher, I must also be holding on to some sort of normality. Mustn't I?
get the gun BACK! Tell her nothing but to bugger off, better yet cough on her then mention the TB test you just had...
"Vultures" is the perfect word for this. I don't know what makes people feel entitled to ask such things! Ick.
If she was that blatent and rude then I suspect she is special needs herself otherwise she surely should have known better than to just launch right in with a question as personal as that?! Sounds like something I would do...lol...
I do wonder what goes through people's heads the second or two before they ask such asinine questions.... do they honestly think it's necessary to be such busybodies?
Lady M: Love the coughing idea. I'm going to try it out this morning on strangers just for fun
Brillig/Kimber: It's strange, but widespread. Nothing is off-limits, except good manners
DJ: You'd never do anything like that. I refuse to entertain the idea for a minute.
I don't think owning a Pak-a-mak makes you in any way odd, OM. Really.
Berk! Moron! Cretin! (Not you, her.)
Oh Omega Mum, this is a situation my daughter and I know so well! My daughter in fact hardly knows which set of Mummies is more hurtful - the ones who want their kids to be cleverer than her clever daughter; or the other ones who want their autistic children to be less autistic than her autistic son!
She thinks on the whole the autistic uones cause more pain - perhaps because their own pain is so much more severe?
In such situations I try to think what my 'Lady Macauley' would do? Which would be I think to raise her eyes to some point above and beyond the offending heads - and stalk off without vouchsafing a single word in reply!
(Really, this should have been an email,shouldn't it? I'm glad my daughter won't be coming here to read it anyway. Pain as deep and naked as that is probably best kept under wraps..)
SAHD: I don't. Nor, in fact, do I own a pearl-handled revolver. But if I had to choose one over the other, I know which it would be (so stylish yet warm and dry in a sudden shower...)
IB: Lady Macauley mode it is, then
It is possible to convey 'I loathe and despise you and wish you to die now' with a single eyebrow. But this is less stylish than a pearl-handled revolver. You could alternatively purchase a pair of lorgnettes or a quizzing-glass in true Georgette Heyer manner and survey her through them wordlessly - I always think this must have been quite fun.
This unfortunate creature sounds rude and insecure! When she's not swooping on nice families, upsetting people, she's probably on the message boards of Alpha Mummy, telling other mothers off about their working arrangements. I hate this competitive mothering thing, trampling on other people to overcome insecurities. Am inclined to side with DJ on this one. Leo sounds just great to me.
I tend to get comments too, together with faces pulled, grunts, tuts etc etc. I usually set Amy free on their own kids - that usually does the trick, clears the room etc etc.
Just say " watch out dear I'm about to walk off and I don't want to tread on your nose ".
Kev
Visiting from TopBlogMag and so glad I did. We must live in the same town - I KNOW that bitch!
Anna: Like your style. Lorgnettes it is. Or a Kalashnikov.
Mother at Large: Thanks.
CJ: Another good tactic.
Kev: Love it, but would I ever remember to say it at the right time?
Nutmeg: Then we're bound to nail her, between us.
Oh... this situation is so familiar to me. I'm always struck dumb when people I'm not intimate or even friendly with do the equivalent of asking to see my knickers. Ugh.
Some people just don't have a built-in radar for boundaries. It's up to us to think up a stock of caustic put downs. And they have to be skin-shrivelling-ly caustic, because the boundary-challenged often have elephant hide to boot.
Orchidea: I think knicker show and tell would be easier that child show and tell.
Crass, ignorant and ill bred.
These people get through life imposing on others good manners.
If I'm not wearing the grey ones with the dodgy elastic, then yes. Oh definitely yes!
Debio: So how come we let them get away with it.
Orchidea: You? Dodgy elastic? Come off it.
... or the pink H&M Snoopy hipsters (yes, I have hips). They only come out once a month...
Definite cringe potential there.
Orchidea: Snoopy hipsters? I'm sorry. I can't possibly accept the idea. It's at total odds with your blog persona. I refuse to believe in them. Huge cringe potential, though.
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