This post is dedicated to the woman I encountered in the supermarket this morning.

My girls HATE going to the supermarket.  No, I’ll rephrase that – they hate the thought of going to the supermarket.  Once we’re out of our front door (after at least half an hour of arguing, tantrum-ing and outright refusing before they eventually give in and get ready to go), they’re fine.

Inside the supermarket they make the best of what they consider to be a bad situation.  They ride on the sides of the trolley, they play ‘tig’ in the aisles and they like to help load and unload the food.  I do try and keep the squeals and shouts and laughter to a minimum (realising as I type this that I only do that because I’m worried about what other people will think), but sometimes they do get a bit over-excited, a bit high-pitched, and they do occasionally forget that there are other people in the supermarket who are more interested in doing their shopping than in unwittingly becoming a part of their games.

This morning, after an exhausting forty minutes of attempting to keep some semblance of control (I’m starting to really dislike that word) over my offspring whilst simultaneously loading food in the trolley, mentally adding up how much it’s all going to cost and trying to come up with something entertaining to do with them this afternoon, we reached the checkout.  So far, so normal.  I paid, the bags went in the trolley and we headed for the exit.  The girls had run on ahead, whooping with joy that they were finally free from the torture that is Tesco, my husband following closely behind them to make sure they didn’t disappear, whilst I dawdled slightly, checking the receipt and enjoying a blissful 30 seconds without a mini-me clinging to my leg.

Then I heard it.

“Well, they were a noisy lot weren’t they?!”

I stopped dead, turned round slowly, and met the eyes of a woman sat on a bench.

At a guess I would say she was in her late 60’s.  Her perfectly behaved grandchild sat smugly on her lap.

I just stared at her.

My mind was racing with a million and one things I wanted to say, but I was scared that if I actually opened my mouth to speak I would never stop, and the ugly rage that had instantly ignited within me when she uttered those words, that primal urge to defend my children would have spewed out and engulfed her.

She stared defiantly back for what felt like hours.

Very deliberately I took a deep breath.  Then I turned my back on her, and walked out of the shop.

Catching up with my family at the car, the usual chaos ensued, no-one any the wiser about what had just happened.  I joined in with loading the shopping into the footwells behind the seats (because the buggy that we haven’t used for nearly 2 years now is still in the boot taking up all the room), returning the trolley to it’s bay, responding to yells about not being able to click in the seatbelts and “I want my window open!” and “Can we listen to ‘Frozen’ on the way home?!”

Once everyone was safely strapped in I gave my husband the car key, and walked home.

Head down, sunglasses on, I think I just made it out of the car park before I started crying.

It wasn’t the words themselves that bothered me – she was right.  They are a noisy lot.  Sometimes I hate that about them, craving just a minute of peace and solitude.  More often though I love that about them – I love their energy and their ability to make anything fun, telling the world all about it as they do so.

It was more what she implied through her words.  I’m well aware that this is completely open to interpretation, and I’ve made mine, and she probably didn’t intend for her words to sting the way they did.  But even so, she shouldn’t have said it.

She shouldn’t have judged me.

Her words told a story that I immediately understood.  In her eyes, noisy = badly behaved children, out of control children, below-par parenting.  She judged me in a split second based on what she had just seen.  Not good enough.  Not coping.  Not able to control her children.  Not respecting other people.

If I had been braver (and better able to control my temper when I’m angry), I would have told her that actually, my girls are good kids, and that I’m doing the best I can, and that I work damn hard to provide for them.  I’d have told her that I feel guilty for having to work so hard but would feel even guiltier if I stayed at home the whole time and didn’t contribute to the family finances and ended up resenting the girls because of it.  I’d have told her that she only had one grandchild to look after, whereas I have three (and that’s a big difference in the grand scheme of things) completely individual and unique daughters who I love fiercely and who drive me crazy in equal measure.  I’d have said that I hope her son or daughter is grateful to have her helping out with the grandchild because my husband and I don’t get a whole lot of hands-on practical support and we haven’t had a night out together since last November.  I’d have told her that I am bone-achingly exhausted most of the time and that I do everything I can to hold it all together for everybody but that sometimes I have a split-second fantasy about running away.

I know that saying all of those things wouldn’t have made the tiniest bit of difference to her judgment.

It might have made me feel a little bit better.

But then again, aren’t we all guilty of judging other people from time to time?

I know I am.  I don’t mean to, and I would certainly never say it out loud (only ever in my head), but I do occasionally make a snap judgment of someone based on the tiny snapshot of their life that I happened to witness.

I’ve vowed not to do it again, not out loud, not in my head, not ever.

Having been on the receiving end of it, I can verify that it sucks.

So, to the woman in the supermarket with the judging eyes: Thank you.  Thank you for opening my eyes to something in myself that I need to work on changing.

Oh, and now that I’ve calmed down, I forgive you.

Honestly?  That last bit was hard.  I’ve been very good at holding onto grudges my whole life and it’s only recently that I’ve learned to let go of old stuff because I realised that at the end of the day, it only hurts me.  Forgiving those whose poison I have allowed to touch me acts as an antidote against that pain, and it heals me far quicker than any other method I’ve tried before.

So here’s the thing.  If you have a habit of judging people, about anything, stop doing it.  Right now.  Please.

And if you’ve been on the receiving end of a judgment, forgive them and make peace.

You’ll feel better – I promise 🙂

And if you see a frazzled woman in the supermarket trying to keep her kids (and her thoughts) together, give her a smile.  You have no idea how much of a difference it will make to her day.