Crumbageddon

I don't have children, so I do not have first-hand knowledge of how difficult they are to raise. I was a child years ago, and although my upbringing was painful and imperfect, my rearing was, in my opinion, better than the cushy, entitled lives I see so many children experiencing today.

The evening was too chilly to sit outside, so Elizabeth and I chose a tiny table in our favorite (crowded) Starbucks. A young couple with two children sat beside us. Unfortunately, a second glance their way revealed they were neighbors, so stupid small talk ensued. Elizabeth knows these neighbors better than I, for the mother has had to "rescue" my friend from 4-year-old Reagan, the little girl, who likes to run after Elizabeth, grab her clothes, and insist that she go into "time-out" whenever Elizabeth walks past their house. So I let Elizabeth do the talking while I sat quietly and observed the girl.

The parents had stopped at Starbucks at Reagan's request. The little girl wanted a slice of lemon pound cake, and her demand for dessert delayed four people in their evening plans. Their only purchase was the pound cake, which they handed over to Alpha Girl, who grabbed the whole slice and began eating down the center. Two towers of pound cake collapsed on either side of her mouth like the World Trade Center on 9/11. Crumbs and bigger chunks fell on the table, the chair, and the floor. When Alpha Girl had enough, her mother poked through the debris—telling Alpha Girl that she was so good to share—and gave pieces to the 2-year-old boy who crushed them in his little fist and, like Jackson Pollock flinging paint on canvas, further decorated the area. "He's much less verbal than Reagan was at his age," the father remarked, "but he's well above average!" Whatever you have to tell yourself, I thought.

A third adult joined the family, a bad-boy hipster with elaborate sideburns. Wolverine sneered at the mess and noted that they would be late if they didn't hurry up. Jackets were donned, bags and children grabbed, and then the five of them headed for the door. When the father discovered that the boy was still clutching a piece of pound cake, he slapped the kid's hand, sending a final spray of crumbs in our direction. Dad looked back and said, "I'll be right back to clean that up!" Of course, he never returned.

I know that wiping tables and mopping floors are responsibilities of the Starbucks crew, but I was appalled that three adults felt entitled to leave a table that messy. New arrivals couldn't sit there unless they took on the job of cleaning up the disaster these assholes thoughtlessly made. Elizabeth and I were stuck looking at it, and, because we had been talking to them, were getting looks from other patrons as if the eyesore was our responsibility.

As a child, I would have loved parents who always let me have my way and who held me accountable for nothing. I can only imagine how much my confidence would have grown if my desires and happiness made a difference to Mom and Dad. I couldn't get my parents to stop to let me pee—"Hold it until we get home," my father would have growled—let alone divert them for food I alone desired. My parents would never have allowed me to make such a mess in public; I remember orders to brush the salt grains off Burger King tables so that the minimum-wage staff wouldn't think my family and I were pigs. As a result of my raising, I know that I am not the center of the universe, and I am glad that I learned that fact early. I feel sorry for Reagan, who might have alpha status right now but will learn soon enough that the rest of the world won't cater to her whims as Mom and Dad do.