Kids at the Bar

Having children makes you no more a parent than having a piano makes you a pianist. – Michael Levine

I hate hate hate when I see a kid in a bar. It’s not an appropriate environment for a child. They absorb every aspect of the bewildering spectacle with their innocent, impressionable little eyes.

I don’t care if you came here straight from your softball game with the team and you weren’t planning on staying long.

I don’t care if you think your little 5 year old is having a ball galloping around the dance floor to the overplayed tunes of the garage cover band.

Didn’t you notice that she almost got stepped on by the big drunk guy who was backing away from the bar with a pitcher in each hand, yelling to the bartender that he would be right back for two more?

Didn’t you notice your little one stopping and staring, mouth agape and eyes wide with astonishment, at the young couple leaning against the pole, her kissing and clawing voraciously at the man's neck, him clutching her barely-covered breast and eagerly grinding into her?

Don’t you see the other patrons shooting looks of disgust at you? They came here to let loose and have a good time, but those who aren’t already inebriated are now hesitant due to the unwelcome presence of your adorable little buzz-kill.

Don’t you realize that it’s 11:30 at night, and she’s rubbing her eyes as she walks in circles around the bar looking for you? It’s bad enough that you have subjected an innocent, doe-eyed child to this loud, clumsy, sticky den of beer and expletives, but to not even be keeping an eye on her is absolutely unconscionable.

I get so disgusted by people sometimes.

And what about the bars? I’m sorry, but if it’s 21 to get in, then it should be 21 to get in. Period. I’m sure if I showed up at our favorite watering hole with my 15 year old in tow, we would be turned away because she’s too young to be admitted. So why is it okay for a pre-schooler? Is a toddler any less vulnerable to the pandemonium of adult night life?

********

Maybe I feel so strongly about this because I was once the kid at the bar.

For those of you who are familiar with my blog, you know that I speak very highly of both of my parents. I was (and still am) blessed to have them, and I have few complaints about my upbringing. But I’ve never said it was perfect.

My mother was the champion shortstop on the local pub's softball team when she was in her 20’s. More than once the players ended up back at the Trails End Tavern for a victory celebration after the game. And since I was at the game, sometimes entertaining myself on the swings and the monkey bars, sometimes cheering on the team from the bench, sometimes off picking flowers for mommy - I ended up at the bar.

Yes, the team had use of the back room, so we were somewhat isolated from the other patrons.
But all the women were drinking and laughing and carrying on. I have an image in my head of my mother’s friend Kathy on her knees up on the table, shaking her very generous maracas and everybody howling and cheering. I probably didn't understand most of the conversations or the jokes.

But when they wanted to discuss something that even they had the sense to deem inappropriate for my little ears (I understand this in retrospect, of course), they asked me to get them pistachios out of the vending machine. The vending machine was out in the bar, so I would have to leave the relative safety of the back room, traverse the chaotic span of cacophonous drinking and merriment, around the guys playing darts, past the shuffle board bowling game and the cigarette vending machine, and over to the tall red machines with the nuts.

I remember thinking I was being very helpful as I slid the quarter into the slot, turned the metal handle, and received the red-stained seeds in my outstretched cupped hands. I felt proud as I brought them back and presented them to my mother’s friends, who thanked me and kissed me sloppily on my head and told me I was the best.

I thought it was fun at the time, and maybe I felt special to be out with Mom. But I do remember the cigarette smoke burning my eyes and throat, and I was always a little fearful of the drunken people because of my uncle, who was an alcoholic.

I was also a little worried that we were going to get in trouble with Dad.

Once we arrived home after midnight, and after I was put in bed I heard my parents arguing. My father was furious that my mother had me out at the bar. It was a really bad fight; my mother was crying. I remember thinking that I should go and tell my dad that it was okay, because I had fun being out. But I was afraid, and I stayed in my bunk and just listened and cried a little bit for Mom.

I remember other times when my father showed up at the bar and took me home. I was disappointed because I was having a good time with the girls and didn’t want to go yet. But I could tell that Dad was angry. He didn’t say much when he was angry.

Now that I’m older I can obviously see that my father was right.

When the subject comes up these days, my mother falls back on the fact that she was so young when she had us. “We were babies having babies,” she’ll say.

Hmm… I was about the same age, just before my 22nd birthday, when I had Mandy. I’ve never brought my precious girl out partying with me and she has never had to step over my passed out, hung-over body to use the toilet in the morning.

It’s an issue of maturity, not age.

But hey, I'm sure I'm not a perfect parent either. So I just nod my head and agree. “Yes, Mom, you were very young when you had us.”

Oh, well. Eventually my parents grew up. Although it was my father that didn’t approve of drinking or swearing around us kids, he was the one who had to learn patience and to keep his temper in check. They were both young. They both had their shortcomings.

It’s kind of funny to me now, actually, that I knew them both when they were young and immature. They watched me grow up; I watched them grow up.

But sometimes I wonder who my guardian angel was back then.