Pet peeve alert.

Butternut attends a daycare sited in a small house in a residential neighborhood that the owner only uses for the daycare.   So, a person could be forgiven for mistaking the place as a residence.

The parking strip is wide, and the owner has taken advantage of the space to plant pumpkins, a pear tree, blue berries and blackberries.  It’s a great bonus for the kids, who get to experience growing and harvesting the food.

This morning we arrived just as a neighborhood mother was stopping by with her two small children.  We went over to the blueberry bush for our twice-daily ritual of picking one ripe blueberry.  One, because I want Butternut to learn to leave some for the other children in the daycare.  I want him to respect the daycare owner’s property, and I think (and the owner agrees) it’s reasonable for him to pick a berry or two each time he has the impulse.

Butternut chattered with the other mother.  I thought that they had stopped their bikes to get a handful of berries from the bushes.  But I was surprised to see mom and child with gallon-sized zipper bags in hand, seeking out as many berries as they could grab. Should I tell her how much I spend to send my child to this daycare so he can (in part) have the experience of picking ripe berries when they are in season? Should I tell the owner of the daycare? Should I let it go?

Butternut, who has finally internalized our desire for him not to pick the nearby unripe pears, reported
to the other mother that he was not going to pick the pears; they aren’t ready.  She cheerfully told him how she loves pears and she can’t wait until they’re ready.

(I did my share of eating cherries from the neighbor’s tree — when I was 10. But as an adult?! With a kid I’m trying to raise to be an ethical human being?! Hello?!)

In the meanwhile, her son asked me if Isaac was a boy or a girl.  “What do you think?” I asked as kindly as I could muster in my annoyed state.  He asked again.  “Does it matter?” I asked, trying not to betray my growing annoyance, mostly at his mother’s actions but also at the world that makes knowing gender so important.  His mother chimed in that my child is a boy, like their friend Zach who had long hair until recently.  “Thank you for asking so politely,” she added.

Whatever.  (Okay, despite my snarky-ness, I really would like tips on how to continue to challenge — too strong a word — assumptions that it is important to know my child’s gender in an age-appropriate way.)

I decided to tell the daycare owner so she could decide how she wanted to handle the situation.  After she asked the mother to stop picking her blueberries, she reported that the child said, “that’s the second time you’ve told us that.”

So, I know that of my two readers, at least one of you is thinking, “Man, she is really uptight!”  Okay, maybe I’m the only one thinking that. I want to banish that thought. Because, damn it, it’s just fine to have standards, even out here on the Left Coast.  That other mother can teach her kids all kinds of lessons, if she wants to.  But I don’t have to like it.