Typically, when one is producing a second sequel to a horror story, the introduction of a new menace is in order. But this is no ordinary sequel. In this third installment of When Moms Attack, our antagonist once again is the infamous "Dickhead" mom from the previous post. Only this time, she's moved on to another totally inappropriate action.
Mind you, this is not so much an attack on my person, or my personal space, or my potty training failures. Rather, this is an attack on my sensibilities. Of which, as many of you know, I have little, so causing them to bristle requires a pretty serious act.
Then again, the woman in question, having caused me to reconsider every warm and fuzzy thought I've ever had about modern day moms during our last interaction, has placed me firmly in a constant state of bristle whenever she's near. Sadly, this extends to her toddler son, whom I can no longer see as anything other than an appendage to the person I so despise. Each time he approaches me, I treat him like a babbling, diaper-clad virus to be avoided at all costs. But as usual, I digress.
So, a couple of weeks ago, I walked into the kinder gym session, and there was Dickhead Mom, her presence immediately putting me on edge. (Thanks to her earlier castigation of my play style, kinder gym now feels like that meeting of the Empire's brass in the first Star Wars movie--you know, when Darth Vader chokes that dude with his thoughts? Guess which role she's playing.) Making a special effort to steer clear of her part of the room (victory, Dickhead Mom!), I managed to avoid any potential incidents.
That's when she plopped herself down, right in the middle of the play area, where everyone's moving around and all the action's happening, unclasped the left side of her nursing bra, and popped her 9-month-old onto her breast--no cover, no discretion, no seeming thought given to how this would affect everyone around her, from the young children terrorizing the room to the less-endowed moms straining to avert their glances. Granted, this had absolutely nothing to do with me, per se, but it struck me: Wasn't this the same woman who had questioned my behavior in playing too roughly with a couple of the boys? What, the comfy pad in the corner isn't good enough for her? She had to turn her nursing session into performance art?
That proved to be just the preface, though, because when I returned last Thursday, there she was again. And once more, I steered clear, this time braced for some public nursing. I was not disappointed. This time, at least, she stayed at the edge of the room--albeit still uncovered--and chatting with a dad holding a newborn. It speaks to my distaste for this woman that I could glare at her out of the corner of my eye and wish unspeakably terrible things upon her even as she breast-feeds her baby.
Then, IT happened. She pulled the baby off of her breast, and sat there, continuing to converse with this new dad for at least 5 seconds--it seemed like 10 minutes--before covering up her totally exposed breast. Okay, I admit it, I looked. But whereas I may have looked with great admiration at her buxom-ness had she not declared herself my mortal enemy, I instead saw her uncovered knocker as a great, nippled monster invading my toddler sanctuary.
Let me make it clear that I do not normally have any problem with public breast feeding. I'm not sure I even have any problem with public breast feeding that ends with an inordinate amount of breast exposure--I am a guy at heart, after all. But this was no simple breast exposure incident. This was no Janet Jackson-style wardrobe malfunction. And it certainly wasn't some kind of free-wheeling public nursing statement a la the bra-less Maggie Gyllenhaal, above. This was an affront to any dad who's ever played a little too rough. This was an attack on what little is left of my self-respect.
Naturally, I didn't do anything. I didn't want to be perceived as some petty amateur who whines at the first sight of his tormentor's tits. I hoped that one of the other parents--moms, where are you!?--would appeal to her sense of decorum and ask that she check her exhibitionism at the kinder gym door. No such luck. I'm not even sure anyone else in the room noticed, which is hard to fathom.
Now, I find myself in the odd position of having nightmarish visions of this demonic boob taunting me from the distance. I may never look upon breasts the same way. Okay, so that's stretching it, but I think you get my point.