Tales From the Bad Parenting Files

And this time, I'm not the bad parent! I'm the victim. Well, one of them, anyway.

OK, so I promise to get back to frivolous fashion tomorrow, but this is a story that begs to be told. Needs to be heard. For those of us out there who doubt our parenting abilities on a daily basis, who regret things we may have shouted in grumpy, crazed fits or just need some validation that we really, truly aren't doing that bad of a job....This one's for you -- proof that there are already clear winners for Lame Parents of the Year.

So, today Youngest Child celebrated his upcoming Fifth Birthday (yikes!) with his three best buds at a golf/amusement park. Now one of the invitees is a perfectly nice kid but has parents I really just don't care for. They're pleasant, but complete flibbertygibbits. Once, they sent their kids to school with a bag of pistachios -- for breakfast. That's bad.

Yeah, it's a nut-free daycare. Worse.

Still, I want my little boy to be happy, so this kid got an invite. As usual, didn't hear from them, didn't hear from them. Youngest Child had really worked himself into a lather, worried his friend couldn't come. Finally I needed to call on another matter and I got my RSVP.

Today, husband is getting ready to head to the birthday spot (I'm already there, setting up), and the phone rings. Mrs. Flibbertygibbet can't believe how the time got away from her and her husband took the car, could Joe please come get her son?

Kinda rude, but Joe is nice. He did it.

The boys all arrive, and Son of Flibbertygibbet isn't looking so good.

"Are you tired?" I ask.

He nods. Says he stayed up late.

He pokes at his pizza and just seems out of it. I mention this to my husband. "Yeah, he's kinda sick. His mom said he has explosive diarrhea, and she gave me this bag full of stuff in case we need to clean him up."

As the hip kids would say, OMG.

Poor kid continues to look miserable, he's moving funny. I ask if he needs to go the bathroom. No, no, he insists. Joe kneels down and talks to him, tells him he knows he's not feeling well and it's OK if we need to go get him a new Pull-Up. Kid just says he wants to go home.

Joe does. It's an hour round-trip. He misses critical parts of the party, i.e., the ones in which I want to pull my hair out because I'm chasing after three 5-year-old boys, an overly-excitable 7-year-old and one 9-year-old drama queen who can barely hold it together after her go-cart craps out in the middle of the track.

After we get back home, I pump Joe for details. Were they apologetic? Act chagrined?

Nope and nope.

I'm just stunned. I want my kids to be happy, too, and no kid ever wants to miss a party. Still, you're a parent first and foremost. Your child's health and welfare come first. Aside from that, to be willing to palm off a diahrreal-kid and send him along with a package of diapers, just in case, like we're hired help (Oh, and I should mention that these people have also asked the lovely, accommodating daycare folks to meet them in the parking lot with their kids because they're in a hurry)....

Well, the karma in the story is that Son of the Flibbertygibbet went home packin' a load. Poo-etic justice? I think so.