A Test of Neutrality

When it comes to children, I am, on the whole, like Switzerland - decidedly neutral. People who want, can support and will love them should have truckloads. People who don't should find hobbies or get cats.

The young woman who came into the wine shop with a small boy and girl in tow abdicated her parental role and dismissed them the moment she walked through the door. While she browsed and chatted animatedly on her pink cell phone, her two offspring ran recklessly wild - they played tag through the delicate displays, rummaged through the cases of pricey wine, climbed the stacks and rattled bottles - their mother glanced their way every now and then but made no move to correct or reprimand them. Eventually they took seats at a table set for lunch, smearing dirty fingerprints on the linen tablecloth, unwrapping napkins and rearranging china. Their mother favored us with an aren't they adorable smile and continued her shopping. When the boy produced a tiny hot wheels car and revved it up before setting it on a plate to race in mad circles - it looked all the world like a deranged cricket and buzzed like a locust - I decided it was time to intervene. As I approached the table, he carefully picked up a fork, set the little car on the non-tined end and raised one clenched fist, preparing to catapult it blindly into God knew where.

I reached the table just in time, resisted the urge to box his ears, and snatched the car away. I don't think so, I told him quietly, You can have it back when you leave. He gave me a sullen look and ran to his mother - who had witnessed the entire incident without as much as a word - and she shooed him away impatiently before shooting me a daggered look. I returned this with as insincere a smile as I could manage, neutrality being a difficult thing to maintain when under siege. Some children, I muttered under my breath as I replaced the tablecloth, refolded the napkins and restored the place settings, should be boiled in oil and sold on the black market.

If, at that age and in public, I reflected grimly, to paraphrase Henry Higgins - I had behaved as if my home were in a tree - and if my mother had been sober and in a generous mood, I might have received one initial warning but she would never have spared the breath to issue a second. I would've found myself hauled out by my ear, deposited in the car without ceremony and left to examine my conduct and consider the consequences. It was a time when children were meant to be seen and not heard - there was no appeals process, no amnesty, and no bargaining for leniency - in matters of discipline, she was perfectly clear and always prepared to follow through. Other mothers were inclined to applaud rather than criticize her methods and sympathy for a rowdy child was rare - parents tended their own children and expected other parents to do the same.

It's one thing to raise a confident, independent, self expressive child who will stand strong and make wise decisions. It's quite another to be an onlooker during the process. Any fool can procreate and bring forth children but it doesn't make them a parent. The young woman completed her wine purchases - a shade less friendly than when she'd walked in - rounded up her wayward urchins and left through the back door. Perhaps she will return but perhaps fortune will smile on us and she will not. The wine shop was intact and my neutrality only a little worse for wear - anarchy had been defeated and once again driven out.