Dear Chick-Fil-A Diners

Dear Chick-Fil-A Diners,

I realize you've gone to all the trouble of shoving your child into the Play Area so that you and your babydaddy can have a "special date" without Timmy, but I think you may be misinformed as to the nature of the Chick-Fil-A Play Area.

The Play Area is not like the child care center at your gym.  I see how you could be confused: the gym drop-n-run also has shiny, primary-colored plastic climbing equipment.  However, the drop-n-run has paid supervising attendants.  The Chick-Fil-A Play Area has a bin of hand wipes.

Perhaps you think that because the walls are made of Plexi-Glas, and you can see what happens, that your child is safe.  The Plexi-Glas serves only the same functions that it does in a hockey rink: it doesn't shatter when heads bounce against it; and blood, snot, and chicken grease wipe right off it.  Yes, it's clear.  You could see what's happening if you could tear your face away from your Polynesian sauce, but that doesn't seem to be happening.  In fact, I know weren't watching, because when I brought your sobbing, injured child to you, you were staring into space.  I could have walked right out with your kid.  Lucky for you, the last thing I need is one more crying child on my hands.

Maybe you think that because it's full of kids, it's an ideal place to leave your child unattended.  It is not.  It's Lord of the Flies in here, and they've got a chicken head on a pointy stick.  And your kid does not have the conch.  In fact, your child has just been plowed over by an enormous five-year-old who's hopped up on ice cream and anabolic steroids.  If you think your child is not being bullied in there, you may need to acknowledge the possibility that your child is the bully.  And discuss with your pediatrician the best way to wean Johnny off the 'roids.

 

Let me paint you a scene:

 

Recently the Young Carnivores are playing in the Chick-Fil-Tunnel when I hear a shriek -- distinctly one of my kids' shrieks -- and then the scuffling of many small besocked feet. 

Down the slide comes a crying Peanut Butter Kid, escorted by the Pork Lo Maniac.  The only thing the Pork Lo Maniac adores more than pork lo mein is ratting out mean kids.  I mean, she savors it.  She gives an ID of the suspect that would hold up in court.

"That mean boy up there just hit PBK.  In the eye.  And he doesn't care.  And he won't say sorry.  He is wearing a green Pokemon shirt and has spiky red hair. And he has light-up sneakers on and you're supposed to put them in a cubby."

Now, little Jack can't stay up there forever.  Because he's a kid, and he'll get bored.  So I wait him out.  Eventually, he comes down the slide.

"Did you hit my daughter?"

"No."

A slew of small people beg to differ.  There's a coup d'etat here in Lord of the Flies. 

"He did!  He did!  He hit me too!"  Fifteen chicken-scented hands point at Jack.

"Where's. Your. Mom."

He looked at me and gave me that squinty look.  Really, young man?  You think you're going to stare me down?  I have stared down all kinds of craziness that you have never even heard of.  I have stared in the face of Kawasaki Disease and food allergies and Orville Redenbacher himself.  I single-handedly caused the global Swine Flu pandemic.  So trust me when I tell you that you have no idea what's about to rain down on your sorry self.

"Let's go, kid."

I march Jack out of the Play Area. (I don't touch him, mind you. I don't want to be sued for anything by Mr. and Mrs. Neglectful.)

Now, I have absolutely no qualms about making a big fat scene.  At some point this will be immensely embarassing to my kids, but so far they find it entertaining.  They think I'm a super-hero.  So to their delight, I bellow:

"WHOSE CHILD IS THIS?"

And I wait for Mrs. Neglect to raise her hand while every set of eyes turns to her.  I lead her sullen child over to her table and explain the situation calmly.  She's already been shamed enough.  She makes her son apologize to PBK.  I buy my kids a round of milkshakes for the road and we, the Conquering Heroes, head out to the cheers of a dozen small children.

I enjoy hero-worship as much as the next mom, but I would really prefer for my daughter not to get hit in the eye in the first place.  I'm guessing you probably won't enjoy the stark raving mad scene I'll create the next time it happens.  Pehaps we can agree on some rules.

Thanks for your cooperation.  Feel free to clip'n'save these rules for future reference.  Or post them at your favorite local play area.

xoxo, Mommy

p.s. stark. raving. mad. mommy. did not receive any payment from Chick-Fil-A to promote its fabulosity in my blog.  Sorry for mangling your cow image, Chick-Fil-A.  I {heart} you.