Last night we went out to eat at Noodles.  It was dinnertime, so there were lots of families with kids.  We found a table in the back, by a family with a couple of little girls who were somewhere between kindergarten and third grade. (I can’t tell kids’ ages, so that’s a guess; older than Addy, still quite a bit younger than tweens.)  While we approached and were getting settled, one of the girls noticed Addy’s face, still quite bruised from laser surgery.  The girl caught her friend’s attention and gestured toward Addy.  They stared wide-eyed.  Then they started whispering furtively together; one kept touching her own cheek while they were discussing the sight.

There was something about their manner that brought back every memory of junior-high-female cattiness – that kind of “Ohmygosh, did you SEE her outfit?” posturing, leaning forward to whisper together importantly, stopping to turn and stare, then ducking back into the gossip.  And it infuriated me.

I could a) ignore them, b) obey my ursine maternal instinct and cross the eight feet between us to give each one a good smack upside the head, c) find a happy medium and just stand there glaring at them until they got uncomfortable, which would have looked weird in public but still been at least mildly satisfying in a passive-aggressive way.

Since I’m not writing this from the local jail, you can assume I went (reluctantly) with Option A.

There were three factors that caused me to pick ‘self-control’ over ‘mother bear’:

1) The girls’ parents were sitting right there, and would have noticed me.  Darn it.

2) Addy was completely oblivious, so… if I’m honest with myself, I’ll admit… no harm done there.

3) There’s a solid possibility that these were actually, truly, good girls.  Girls who would never in a million years intend to hurt anyone’s feelings.  Girls who are too little to understand that their innocent whispering could be noticed, let alone misconstrued.  Girls who have never seen a half-purple face before and are simply trying to figure out what might have happened to it by talking about it together.  Girls who are just old enough to start innocently adopting those chattering female mannerisms that carry such baggage for those of us who survived junior high.

So, I sat down at our table and ate dinner like an adult.  Every once in a while I glanced over to observe the girls, and they seemed to be normal.  I’m not sure exactly what that means (like how nasty the normal ones can get), but at least they weren’t running around hitting old ladies or laughing at people in wheelchairs.  So, maybe I can give them some room to be curious.

I guess I’m learning that it’s a lot easier to handle the questions with humor, than with grace…