Bad mothers

I always swear to myself that I won't judge other parents. Parenting is a hard job, there's no right and wrong, every child is different.

But then today at McCaulou's, where I was buying big-boy underpants for Henry, I saw a mom a little older than me with a boy a little younger than Henry. As Henry played quietly with the toy train in the toddler section, this little boy was pulling clothes off the racks and laughing as they dropped to the floor.

This in itself did not spark my judgement. Frankly, if not for the train, Henry would have been right there with him.

The mother said cheerfully, "Thank you! Thank you for organizing these clothes! But they don't need you to organize the clothes, honey." Then, as she hung the little clothes back on the racks, "What a good boy you are!"

Of course, within minutes the boy was happily pulling more clothes off the racks. Wouldn't you? I'd probably loot a drugstore for gratitude and praise, I get it so seldom.

Again, the mom said, "What a good boy! But you don't have to organize these clothes."

Outwardly, I was perusing 2T-sized shirts for Henry. Inwardly I was rolling my eyes and snickering like I was in middle school. Nothing worse than misdirected praise, I thought. It's so sad when parents are so afraid to tell their kids no, I thought. Way to send your kid a mixed message, I thought.

For about four minutes I felt warm and peaceful in my superiority.

Then the young child wandered over to where my own sweet, well-mannered child was playing with the train set. As the child approached the table, Henry, easily a head taller than the child, swung around and shoved him.

The child teetered, but stayed upright. Until Henry shoved him again. That time he went down, whimpering.

"No pushing, big guy!" said the cheerful mother to Henry. She was less cheerful now. "No pushing!"

I was mortified. My son the bully.

"No pushing!" I said, sternly. Henry, unimpressed, turned back to the train set, but I took his arm and led him away. "You pushed that boy, so now you can't play with the train anymore."

Henry began wailing. Really almost screaming his dismay as two or three tear drops feel from each eye at a time.

"Can you say sorry?" I asked. I'm not sure he even heard me over his own shrieks. Even if he had, he was crying too hard to say anything.

So I said 'sorry' to the other child and his mother. I thought she looked disapproving, but that may have simply been me projecting, embarrassed as I was by my inability to control my own son who, to those who didn't know him, now appeared to be a bully and a brat.

Still holding his hand as he bawled, I felt completely incompetent. I've been trying for more than a month to get Henry past the pushing thing, and here he was shoving this little child harder than ever. But then his sobbing made me wonder if I was a tyrant for pulling him away from the train.

The truth: I have no business judging anyone. I have no idea what I'm doing myself. Let this be a lesson to me.