My Experiment with Public Conflict

Abe and Theo

A few months ago, I yelled at a woman across the main room of my local library. Amy, the librarian had crossed the wrong crazy mom. With three kids in tow and a mess of hormones pumping through my body, my patience for impatient grownups was nonexistent. Yes, I see now. I’m a huge hypocrite.

Confrontation, public or private, has never been my thing. If you ask my husband, he might laugh and tell you all the times he’s made me blush by yelling at strangers out car windows. This is not me. I’m quiet, with a steel reserve that is intimidating in its own way. “What’s going on in that head of hers,” you might hear my friends ask each other. I surprised even myself at the library.

It was an ordinary morning. We were rushed, but only ten minutes late for the eight o’clock dentist appointment. Afterwards, I dropped my four-year-old off with Dad for bread deliveries and picked up my friend’s one-year-old, Abe. I headed to the library where I hoped he and my one-year-old, Theo would play and look at books with me while my six-year-old, Jacob did his math. Thirty minutes at the library. That was my aim. Maybe it was misguided. Maybe optimistic. But I was trying.

It was a crowded morning in the kids’ section. Toddler Reading Time was in full post-pandemic swing. I recognized my thirty-minute timeline was untenable. But, I thought, maybe it would be good for Theo and Abe. Theo is gregarious like his dad. He loved the big group and strutted around, getting in everyone’s face, saying, “Hi,” and waving. Abe was much less content. The crowd of strangers unsettled him and somewhere, somehow, I’d lost his pacifier. He was fussy. Then he pooped. I strapped Theo in the stroller, left Jacob in charge, and ran out to the car to change Abe and look for his pacifier, which I never found. I dumped the dirty diaper in the can outside the door.

I returned to discover that Theo had also pooped. Not wanting to run back outside, or to the family restroom that is almost outside, I laid him down and, as discretely as possible, cleaned him up. I ran the diaper to the farthest trash can I could find, next to the big glass front doors, and stopped for a squirt of hand sanitizer. I took a breath. Everything was fine. Everyone was content.

Toddler Reading Time had finished. A few moms were hanging around letting the kids play. Lots of books were coming off the shelves, unread. I set up Jacob with his math. I kept Abe distracted with books and snuggles. He was doing well, while Theo was off exploring and coming back occasionally to check in on me.

On one of these trips, he brought me a poopy diaper he’d dug out of the bottom of someone else’s stroller. I was tempted to be annoyed and wanted to make it this other woman’s responsibility to throw away her trash. There were even chartreuse-smeared wipes flapping out of the strapped-up ball of baby waste. I knew which mom the diaper had come from. I sat there, legs crossed, Abe in my lap and Theo reaching for the prize I’d just confiscated. I held it above my head, hoping the culprit would realize the plight she’d put me in and come reclaim her mess.

I watched and waited. In this moment, this silent beat, I saw another mom at the library with her two youngest. She cooed and smiled at her infant while the toddler gave his little sister kisses and imitated his mom’s baby voice. This was beautiful. A peaceful moment in what I’m sure was a hectic day.

I made a choice. I distracted Theo and Abe with a few books on the carpet, got up off my butt, and walked the dirty diaper over to the nearest can I saw, which was next to the librarian’s desk. I asked Amy if I could put the diaper in there. She raised her eyebrows as she apologized. “No. Please not in there.” But she had more to say. “And please don’t change your babies in this room.” Amy could not hide the bite in her tone and accusing brow with a polite “please.” Full of resentment, I did what she asked and walked the other mom’s diaper to the trash by the front door.

I’d seen Amy in the kids’ section many times before, and this confrontation was beginning to confirm my suspicions – my judgments – that she had no patience for sharing space with kids. I’d witnessed her eyes roll and the disgruntled way she followed the younger kids around, picking up trails of books. I was primed to be annoyed by her presence as I assumed she was annoyed by mine.

My heart, my gut, my spirit – something in me was immediately mixed up. I could feel it rising to the top of me. How many moms at Toddler Reading Time show up for themselves as much as for their kids? How many are lonely? What about Abe’s Mom who’s single, widowed? How would she respond to being corrected about the way she handled her baby’s poop? I felt unwelcome and defensive for moms. We need help!

As I was leaving the library, I saw Amy recounting her conflict with me to her coworkers. She was waving her arms about, emotion on her face. She turned away and stopped talking when she saw me approach. My annoyance launched into offense and anger.

That’s when I yelled across the room. “Are you complaining to your coworkers about dirty diapers?” She responded that she was looking for a solution more than she was complaining.

Abe was crying again. Jacob was listening. I said something like, “Being corrected about poopy diapers is very unwelcoming to a mother of small children. These moms are probably lonely.” I was brief but blunt.

The manager was summoned even though I’d said no, I didn’t want to talk to her but to the person who’d offended me. They explained their concerns for sanitation, and that they understood their facilities for diaper changes were inconvenient. I left mad.

When the kids were all strapped in the car, I looked at Jacob and thought about a command I try to keep and teach my kids – be slow to speak and slow to anger. I’d failed. Jacob had watched. I told him I’d be right back and went inside to find Amy.

She came back out to the floor looking very defeated and wary, the manager in tow. I said sorry and handed her a loaf of fresh bread from our bakery. She said thank you and was surprised and pleased with my apology and the gift.

I went home and wrote her a letter explaining myself further. This helped me reflect on where I’ve come from. I haven’t always been concerned with the treatment of mothers and babies in public. There was no urgency in me, before having kids, to advocate for children to take their rightful place in the middle of everything grownups are doing. How else will they grow up unless they’re given this position and experience? I had compassion for Amy who is, most likely, a mother herself. She’d probably lived the lonely years too.

A few days after I dropped off my letter, I got a call from an assistant director of the public library system. She left me a very kind voicemail. I was surprised the letter had been passed around and pleased that my public freak-out had been noted.

I’ve been back to the library many times since. Amy’s countenance has changed. She always greets us warmly. Jacob and Zoe know her name and go to her for help finding books. She’s endlessly patient, leading them all over the kids’ section in search of Pokémon, Minecraft, unicorns, and princesses. When she cleans up after the little ones, her body tells a different story than before.

I was back there just last week with Abe and his mom. We had four kids between us, and Amy was working. Within twenty minutes of arriving, ten other moms with toddlers descended on the kids’ section. There wasn’t even a program being hosted. The toys were everywhere, the discarded books shelf was filling up, and Amy was smiling, chatting, and serving the families. There’s a new sign posted there now, directing moms to the family bathroom for diaper changes. I’m not ashamed of myself for yelling at a stranger, though I wrestled with this in the days following the outburst. It was so unlike me that I had that skin-crawling feeling every time I replayed it in my head. Today though, I’m thankful that I humiliated myself for all the moms out there doing their best to hold it all together.