CONTENT WARNING: Accusation of Nazism directed (unknowingly) at Jewish person

I work at a kids’ jump place, so it’s pretty obvious that I’ve run into a few Entitled Jerks here and there. But today’s experience was one I felt deserved to be shared.

Some of our jumps don’t allow parents to go on — specifically, the bigger jumps since a parent could accidentally hit a younger kid. This is a constant issue at my workplace; I have to tell so many parents that adults aren’t allowed on certain jumps. Most of the time, they understand and don’t go again. Sometimes they’re inquisitive or annoyed, but I’ve never been insulted or thrown any flak; they just think the rule is dumb.

As I was walking up to the mother who is the subject of this story, she was instantly pretty hostile.

Mother: “You’re not gonna come tell me to get down, are you?”

Me: “I’m sorry, miss, but adults can’t go on this jump.”

Mother: “Really? You’re a f****** Nazi man.”

I was so taken aback by this; I normally only hear this type of talk online. The thing is, I’m actually Jewish, and my great-grandparents lived during and survived the Holocaust. But I decided to hold my tongue since this woman was obviously a toxic individual.

Then, she tried to guilt me.

Mother: “Come on, [Kid], I’m not the one making you cry. That guy is.”

Her kid wasn’t crying; he was silent as a mouse.

This would’ve been the end of it if she hadn’t been less mature than a nineteen-year-old employee. She thankfully didn’t try to get on the jump again, but she decided to be a grown baby. Every time I walked by her, she made comments. I couldn’t hear all of them over the commotion, but these were a couple.

Mother: “Look out for him, kids. He’s a commie.”

Mother: “Sorry we can’t have any fun anymore, kids. He’s to blame.”

I decided to ignore her, but it really pisses me off to think she’s teaching her kids to be a baby when things don’t go their way and to treat employees like they aren’t humans. A grown mother more childish than a student employee out there.

I worked at a soft play centre for small children for a couple of years. One day, I was managing the check-in desk when two mothers came in with their children.

Mother #1: “I’ll get this.” *Pulls out her purse*

Mother #2: “No, you got it last time. It’s my turn to pay.”

Mother #1: “No, really, I insist.”

Mother #2: “Well, if you’re sure. That’s very kind of you.”

[Mother #2]’s small child spoke up then.

Child: *Very loudly* “Mummy will be very pleased. The bank machine ate her card this morning! She said a bad word!”

When I was about twelve, I used to go to a playground in a small park near my house. The playground was structured so the swings were kind of in the middle of everything. And brilliant kids ranging from about four to eight years old always ran across in front of whoever was on the swing at the time. Parents for some reason only tried to catch them once or twice in three years of my regular presence there.

Kids would run by about every three minutes, and even if they were far enough away, I would stop the swing with my legs immediately (which hurt). One day, when I was on a swing, a mom came up to me to complain.

Mom: “My kids are playing here, and you’re putting them in danger!”

Me: “I see them, and I always try to stop the swing when kids get nearby. The only solution would be not to use the swings at all. You should probably teach your kids not to run in front of a swing.”

That last remark was rude.

Mom: “How old are you?!”

Me: “I’m twelve.”

Mom: *Almost shouting* “Playgrounds are for kids! You’re too old!”

This was a public playground with no age restrictions.

Then, another woman (the mom’s mom, judging by the dialogue and her age) came up to her and asked her to stop. Thank God. She went back to sit on a bench nearby to keep making her remarks.

I’m with my two-year-old at a playground. As she’s two, I’m keeping pretty close to her, in case she needs anything while she’s running around. 

Another girl, about four, is climbing on the playground equipment nearby. My daughter goes past her to get to the slide — just near her, not touching or cutting in line — and out of the blue, the other girl hits her.

Me: “Don’t hit.”

Girl: “You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my mom.”

She moves as if to hit my daughter again.

Me: “DO. NOT. HIT. PEOPLE.”

Girl: “You’re not my mom!”

An older woman comes over, looking tired and distracted.

Older Woman: “Is there a problem?”

Girl: *Pointing to me* “She’s trying to tell me what to do, Grandma!”

Me: “I told her not to hit my daughter after she did so unprovoked.”

Older Woman: *Sounding dazed* “Oh.”

Girl: “But she’s not Mom!”

The older woman shrugs and wanders back to the benches on the side of the playground.

Other Girl: “See?”

Me: *Pointing to my daughter* “I am her mom, and I can tell you not to hit her.”

The other girl pouted and, finally, left to terrorize another part of the playground.

A friend of mine — close enough that we’re both officially “aunties” to each other’s kids — had to leave her house for a month or so while they fixed a mold problem and renovated it. She originally considered renting a place for the time, but I offered to let her and her son stay with me instead.

My daughter and I were showing her the area near her temporary abode, and that meant taking them to the rather small playground area for those staying in the complex I lived in.

Friend: “Oh, look, [Son]! They have a sandbox here, too!”

Son: “There’s no toys?”

Friend: “Not yet, but we can fix that later!”

I didn’t think much of it until I came home later from a shopping trip to find my daughter, whom I’d left with her “auntie” while shopping, running up to me with a few of her old rarely played-with toys.

Daughter: “Mom, can I give these to the kids, too? Auntie says I need to ask you.”

Me: *Confused* “They’re your toys, so you can give them away if you want to, but who are you giving them to?”

Daughter: “We’re picking park toys!”

I followed my daughter to where my friend was sitting on the floor of their guest room with a number of her son’s toys dumped on the ground. She was helping her son pick out which toys he wanted to make “park toys”. They ended up with a larger dump truck, one or two other smaller vehicles, a sand pail and shovel, and a few other odds and ends.

Once they had their selection picked out, along with the few old toys my daughter insisted on adding, we all went on a walk back to our local playground to play with them, and then we left them in the sandbox when we went home.

I was skeptical of this, but my friend assured me it was a good idea to leave everything and to “just watch”. Over the next month, we saw various happy kids playing with the new “park toys”. I expected all the toys to get dragged away to a random kid’s toy chest, but not only did they stay at the park, but they somehow multiplied. New toys appeared out of nowhere until we had a good selection of usually worn but still play-worthy toys for local kids to enjoy at the park.

My daughter was quite proud of her own contribution to the “park toys”. She would run over to me with her little chest puffed out in pride to report when she saw a kid playing with her hand-me-down toys. In fact, she grew so insistent on donating her toys to the park that I ended up having to set limits on what she could take there, but I did start collecting old toys from her to donate to charity, instead.

My friend left the toys when she moved back to her old home, as her local sandbox already had its own toy collection. I lived at that home for almost a decade after that, and the toys persisted over time. Eventually, all the ones we originally added were broken or otherwise disappeared, but new ones kept being added to keep the sandbox stuffed full of fun toys for local kids to play with.

I haven’t thought of those old toys for quite a while now. However, my daughter recently discovered that there is a park with a sandbox not too far from her new rental, and she told me she is plotting a thrift store run in hopes of starting up her own “park toys” tradition where she lives. Hopefully, the tradition stays strong for the next generation.