I’m changing a mannequin when I get called away to help some customers. I leave the mannequin half-dressed and lying sideways on the pedestal.

As I’m coming back to finish the job, a woman comes into my section with her small children. One of the kids sees the mannequin and instantly looks upset.

Child: *Voice wobbling* “Who did this?”

Me: “Oh, don’t worry, sweetie! I’m just giving her some new clothes; that’s a—”

Mom: *Angrily, pointing at me* “SHE did this!”

They both glared at me and stormed off. Around twenty minutes later, they were asked to leave for not having masks.

A young boy walks into our store holding a gift card.

Boy: *To my coworker* “I found this on the ground outside. I think someone lost it.”

My coworker takes the card and scans it to see if there is any money on it. There is $15.00 on it.

Coworker: “Well, it looks like there is indeed $15 on this card. We can hold it to see if the owner of it comes back.”

Boy: “Okay!” *Smiles*

He goes back to his mom and tells her about his good deed. The mom comes over to us almost immediately. 

Mom: “So, what exactly are you doing with that card?”

Coworker: “Oh! We’re just going to hold it and see if anyone comes back looking for it. I’m sure they’ll be happy when they see it’s here.”

Mom: “So, you’re not going to let my son keep it? He found it!”

My coworker goes silent so I hop in.

Me: “You guys found the card?”

Mom: “That’s right!”

Me: “If you want, we can take your name and number, and if no one claims it in a few days, we can call and let you have it.”

Mom: *Sarcastically* “I don’t expect you to do that if it’s against your store policy.”

Me: *Confused* “Oh… okay, then.”

Mom: *Sarcastically again* “Thanks, [Boy]!”

The boy turns around and gives us another smile and thumbs up. I assume he didn’t pick up her sarcasm.

Mom: *Angry* “Should have just kept it and not said anything!” 

After they leave, my coworker turns to me and starts speaking sarcastically.

Coworker: “Oh, yeah, that’s nice. Teach your son to be dishonest!”

We were both surprised and angry at how the mom acted. She definitely didn’t set a good example for her son. I hope he still feels good for his good deed.

Related:
This Apple Fell Far From Its Tree, Part 2
This Apple Fell Far From Its Tree

Our family had planned a trip to see family in another state. Unfortunately, my husband had to work so he couldn’t go with us after all.

I was telling a friend in that state that we would have to cancel the trip. Unexpectedly, her husband — a high school friend of mine — volunteered to pick up my sons and me if my husband could drive us halfway there.

We made the switch. My friend and I were chatting as we neared an exit. My middle son asked if we could stop for a bathroom break. We did. As we were getting drinks, my friend whispered, “He’s asked to stop at almost every exit. Is he marking his territory?”

I work in a library. The building we are housed in is over a hundred years old and hasn’t been renovated, and it was not planned with the vagaries of entitled twentieth-century parents or their badly-behaved kids in mind.

One of the scary things about the reference department is that patrons enter and leave through big glass doors that open out to the stairwell. If you are not paying attention, there is every chance that you will go down the stairs head over heels. It continues to amaze us that we haven’t been sued.

However, I am glad to say that, come the twenty-first century, the administration finally removed the big glass doors and put in heavy metal doors that aren’t easy to open, especially if you are a two-year-old. The new doors are ugly and look like every fire door you have ever seen in old prison movies, but it slows people down and they have to pause before continuing down the stairs.

A young mom who is working on her PhD — I cannot imagine in what, and I hope it wasn’t child care — comes in with a boy who is maybe six and a girl who is four. The two kids have been shrieking all the way up the stairs and they continue to hoot, holler, and carry on. They run from the reference room into our computer room. They run back and into the arts and fiction section on the other side of reference. They play hide and seek by crawling under tables and they play Superman by climbing on top of the tables and jumping off.  

At no time does the mom say or do anything to stop them. She has engaged the services of two librarians and is making them chase down books for her thesis. This leaves me to help other patrons and to chase down the kids.  

Our offices are tucked into a corner of the reference room. The kids have found their way in there and are going through drawers looking for crayons. I lead them out of there and find them paper and the “public” crayons we keep for children whose parents have never heard of bringing things to keep a child entertained.

This occupies them for ten minutes.

The reference director and I keep leading the kids back to their mom, who makes vague statements to them about behaving before ignoring them again.  

The kids play tag by running out onto the landing — it’s a hot day, so we have doors and windows open to circulate the air — narrowly escaping falling down the stairs and breaking their little necks. We shut the doors, but they just bomb right through them, slamming them open and letting them crash shut behind them. Mom makes more quiet vague threats.

Then, they find the piano. It’s a beautiful baby grand donated by a local family and it has just been tuned. The kids start pounding on it and screaming at the tops of their lungs. I collect both of them and return them to their mother.

She just looks at me and says, “I don’t understand. I am trying to write the thesis for my PhD. And I don’t know how I am supposed to do it if you gals won’t do your job and watch my kids.”

My supervisor and I both explain that our job is to help people find information and her job is to watch her kids. She seems stunned to know that she isn’t the only person using the library. I guess she thought all the other people were window dressing? 

She comes back a few times and tries to keep the kids under control, but it becomes clear that her heart isn’t in it. We are glad when she gets all the information she needs and never returns.

A father and his daughter — maybe twelve years old — come up to the reference desk. To call the child surly is an understatement. She clearly wants to be anywhere but here. The father is prompting his little angel.

Father: “Go on. Tell the librarian about what you need.”

He then turns to me.

Father: “Maybe you will understand.”

Daughter: “I need a book on Moes.”

That is exactly how she pronounces it, like “Moles” but without the L.

Me: “Okay. Can you tell me a little more? I am not quite certain what we are talking about.”

Father: “You and me both.”

Daughter: “MOES.”

Me: “What class is this for?”

Daughter: “School.”

Me: “Yes, but what class?”

Daughter: “For a report on MOES.”

The father shakes his head and looks heavenward.

Me: “Okay, let’s try again. Science? History? English?”

Daughter: “I doin’ a report on MOES.”

Father: “Okay, I am going to ask again. What the heck are we talking about?”

Daughter: “I tol’ you. MOES.”

Me: “Is it for science? Are we talking about mold? Like how it’s used for penicillin?”

Daughter: “I ain’t doing nothing with penicillin.”

Father: “WHICH. CLASS. IS. THIS. FOR?”

The daughter gives a heavy sigh as if she is giving up state secrets.

Daughter: “Moes. Like what grow in the back yard!”

Father: “You mean moles? Like the animal?”

She stomps her foot and screams “MOES” again. But she finally says, in a completely different voice:

Daughter: “It’s for science class.”

I get inspired because there have been a lot of kids through looking for material on plants and trees.

Me: “Is this for Mr. [Science Teacher]’s class?”

The daughter now has her lower lip stuck out.

Daughter: “Yeah.”

Me: “Are we talking about the thick green stuff that grows on the side of trees and around the roots?”

She looks peeved that I figured it out.

Daughter: “Yeah.”

Her father invokes the Lord’s name and adds:

Father: “It’s called MOSS. MOSS.”

I find some appropriate information and send an assistant off to get the books.

Father: *Shaking his head* “Thank you! As God is my witness, she speaks perfectly good English, but since she got in with this bunch of new friends, she’s decided on this whole new gig.”

He turns to his daughter.

Father: “YOU may think you sound all down with the struggle, but what you sound like is a fool. We’re going to have a talk about speaking so you can be understood when we get home.”

I so wanted to slap a gold star on that weary-eyed man’s chest.

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