Y’all. I finally met someone more judgemental than me.

Last Thursday night, PK and I took Gray to a local outdoor shopping center we often frequent. There is a Barnes & Noble there with a train table (side tangent: Thomas the Tank Engine I do not approve of, for reasons that would take an entire post to talk about … yet this train table is like the equivalent of a spoonful of fiber for my child. He always — and I mean ALWAYS — poops while he is there. And so we go and expose him to Thomas and his misogynistic viewpoints.) and a Caribou Coffee shop (PK’s fav) and a bunch of other shops. It’s very pretty and al fresco, la la la.

Anyway, we don’t always go at night, but since it’s a pretty safe bet that the child is going to do the good thing (especially if he hasn’t all day) we do go fairly *ahem* regularly. We went so PK could get a coffee using his BUY ONE GET ONE FREE coupon (hot chocolate for me, thanks) and of course, so we could go to the train table.

Now the train table itself is interesting. There are almost always other kids there. And their parents range from fruity mcfruitcakes to annoyingly rigid and everything in between. You never know what kind of kids (or parents) are going to be there. Sometimes there are very aggressive children and sometimes Grayson is the aggressor. Sometimes they all play nicely together while the parents read their gossip rags or send text messages.

OK, so Thursday. Train table.

There were two women there and one little girl when we arrived. All three were black, not that it matters overmuch, but at least you can get a picture in your head. Each spoke with a slightly Northern nasal accent. They were decked out in Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, Ugg boots, Louis Vuitton (what IS it with that ugly label?) purse … the works. The little girl had on a sweet yellow cardigan and blue jeans strategically ripped in all the right places. She couldn’t have been more than 3 years old.

Their conversation went a little something like this:

Dolce: “Well, you have to raise little girls right. You have to raise them so that they’ll be little girls. You have to teach that stuff, like how to dress.”

Gabbana: “Oh, I totally know. I was the oldest and so everyone had to follow my lead but I think I raised her right.”

Dolce: “Oh yeah, you totally did. You know I always try to dress her right because what kids wear is a reflection on the parents.”

Gabbana: “I totally agree. I’m not going to let her go out of the house looking like a slob, because what she wears reflects on me and how I am as a parent. DeShawn has this new girlfriend and whenever she goes over there, I make sure to TOTALLY deck her out in all name brands. I want that girlfriend to know not to mess with me.”

(I try not to glance at my ill-fitting Old Navy pants and scruffed black crocz)

Gabbana continues: “I NEVER put her in sweatpants if I can help it. I want her to have pride in how she looks.”

(I definitely do NOT look at my son in his blue sweatpants, grubby sneakers, $1.74 Target T-shirt, and chocolate smeared mouth)

(He was helping me drink my hot chocolate)

Dolce: “I would never do that either! But listen, you know, if I only have $3.00 left in my account, you know I’m going to spend it on my daughter (she pronounced it daw-ter). Kids under the age of two get messy a lot and so you know you go out and buy them clothes at Wal-mart ’cause they’re just going to mess it up.”

Gabbana: “But you don’t buy it at Wal-mart. I mean, because you have pride in how she looks.”

Dolce (backtracking): “OH NO. I mean, I WOULD, but I DON’T. She had this nice sweater and …”

(they get lost in some story with a lot of names and I chase down Grayson who has tried to throw one of the Thomas trains into the garbage can. I really don’t think they were necessarily referring to me when they started the conversation but you can bet your buttons I felt self conscious as all hell that I hadn’t showered that day.)

(Or the day before.)

(Additionally? I didn’t realize I needed to wear my Prada* to the train table.)

I came back just in time to hear …

Gabbana: “He just pulls her hair into a ponytail and then braids it and it looks terrible. You can’t do that with her hair!”

Dolce: (murmuring sympathetically) “NO, of course not.”

Gabbana: “She always has ratty things in her bag instead of what I give her to wear and I’m like, where are you getting these from and where are her nice clothes? She had this beautiful sweater her grandmother gave her, but I didn’t see it for weeks because DeShawn’s new girl had HER daughter wearing it. He didn’t think I would mind.”

Dolce: “Men.” laughs “I’ve got a different problem. My new man is the kind of man who wants to have marriage first and then a baby after and have it be his baby. I mean, I don’t know what the big deal is.”

Gabbana: “Well, I just don’t think you need that today, especially you.”

Dolce: “You think?” pause “You’re right, I know. I’ve done a damn fine job of raising Sweet Pea. You know I just want to be able to raise my daughter right, raise her the right way.”

Gabbana: “I totally understand and honestly I think you’re doing a really good job, despite that jerk.”

Dolce: “Yeah, he really is a jerk, isn’t he? I mean, it’s stupid but what are you going to do?”

(at this point, my head whipped around so fast I thought I was going to get whiplash. We consider damn and jerk and stupid to be bad words in our household and don’t say them around Gray. I really, really, really had to bite my tongue because I wanted to gently say something along the lines of, “we’re trying to watch what we say around our son, and I’m sure you probably don’t realize it, but you are using some pretty ugly words.” But I already felt judged and condemned for my slovenly appearance. So I kept my mouth shut.)

(But I was also tickled that these women wanted to “raise the girl right” yet … oh, the judging! the archaic notions regarding gender stereotypes! the words they used in front of her! My eyes sparkled and I couldn’t wait for PK to get back from his magazine perusal so we could put our heads together and whisper like assholes.)

(Also? Grayson had pooped by this point and I felt sure his STANK could not be helping our cause.)

PK finally came over and we left. We saw them leaving a few moments later and go to their nice, four-door sedan … with it’s Maryland license plate.

Whew! I couldn’t tell you how glad I was only to be judged ONCE by the visiting out-of-towners, rather than trying to find a new train table to poop at frequent. Because I REALLY cannot afford $150 boots.

*I don’t actually own anything Prada.