It took me a while to learn to stop judging parenting that was different from my own. Two years and eight months to be exact. With the arrival of my second kid, I quickly learned that there was a price to pay for to my smugness about my well-behaved, rule-following girl and that price was called my feisty, “never met a rule I didn’t think was worth challenging ” (but awesome and funny as hell!) boy.

Actually, if I’m completely honest, it took me a little more than those two years and eight months to stop the judging. I was one of those mothers of a innately quiet, calm girl who thought I knew what was up. The kind you want to give a beat-down for her righteousness.  So I will admit it took a hot minute for me to come to my senses. Perhaps it started with the day the boy was approximately 18 months old and, somehow, wielding a knife upon my return from a 10 second trip out of the room. Or maybe it was the day he lay down on the sidewalk  – nay, the center of 96th street – to have a fairly long, drawn-out tantrum.Then I got waaay less attitude about how well I was doing as a parent.

But deep down, while I realized that I had been given an easy first child (and to be fair to the boy, a fairly easy second child, albeit one with a broad interpretation of the word “no”), I thought I knew better about a lot of things. For starters, I had two good sleepers. I attributed their good sleep to….well, me. I was a Weissbluth groupie. I stuck to sleep schedules military-style and could not understand why anyone would let their children sleep in the stroller when my lord and savior Weissbluth specifically said not to do that. My kids went to bed at 19:00 sharp and I would stare in awe/dismay at parents with their toddlers seated at a nearby table at my 8 pm dinner.What was wrong with these people I wondered.

Another thing that flummoxed me: Attachment parenting. Not because I didn’t understand why it could work, but because I could not understand why on earth I – or anyone –  would prescribe to a parenting approach that would result in MORE people in the bed. As he well knows, I barely want my own spouse there. The thought of accepting/desiring a whole slew of people was unfathomable to me, even if a member of that that slew clocked in at 15 lbs.

Other things: As I would stroll down the street with my kids whom I forced out of the stroller when they were three because “This is New York; we walk places,” I would see seven year-olds lounging like kings in strollers (fine, they may have been four. Whatever) and give their parents a sidelong stink-eye. It’s possible that those parents may have seen my workhorses I mean kids being dragged down the street saying “my feet hurt, mommy” and thought similar evil thoughts about me and my parenting. But my way was clearly better, nevermind that it took us approximately six extra years to get anywhere.

Even harder not to to judge were (and let’s be real, are) the four year-olds on the street with pacifiers stuck in their maws.  What the fuck? But that was then (ish).

As my boy child started to grow, it became apparent that he had different ideas than I did about who  was in charge. It turned out that the parenting magic I thought I had worked to make my daughter behave was more her than me. So as I licked my “I know best” wounds and discovered that paying the boy money to stay in his bed all night actually worked (don’t judge, that’s my job), it finally dawned on me that the the best parenting is what works for you and your particular kid. That most people are doing their level best. And I truly came to at least mostly believe this. And I say mostly because some other parents really don’t make it easy for me. While I think I’ve been clear that I find most kids generally annoying, my judgements – or as I like to say, observations – are really geared toward parents of “older” kids, and by that I mean the 5+ crowd who really do have an amazing capability to act human. For example:

Kids who talk loudly all the time because their parents have never said or heard of the word “Shh.” You know who I mean. These juveniles have no inside voice. Their natural volume hovers around 11. They like to be Heard. Everything they say is Interesting (in their own and evidently, their parents’ minds). I’ve sat through elevator rides, movies, plays and bus-rides where I have heard nary an admonishment from parents for the sound barrier-breaking, hackle-raising decibel of their children. Why, people, why?

The worst is when you are stuck with these kids/parents for the foreseeable future. Like in a play when the child loudly answers questions that the actors ask one another as part of, say, the script. Like in the movies when the child behind me narrates what just happened in case anyone in the theater missed it (side note: Old people do this too). Like on the bus which is such unadulterated chaos around drop-off and dismissal times, it’s hard to even come up with a good example of what I mean. Let’s just say that one time a dad encouraged his five year-old to sound out every word on every advertisement on the bus. Loudly. The dad was proud. Me, not so much.

The Non-shushing sister wife: Parents who never say “Please for the love of god don’t say that again” or some variation thereof. I once heard a kid say “The squirrel doesn’t like the squeaky wheel” 25 times (from when I started counting which was at least 5 rounds in)…and that was just walking down one block until I actually stopped in a store to end the madness for myself. That kid may still be uttering that sentence for all I know. I am acquainted with the fact that kids like to repeat themselves because my own have pulled these repetitive shenanigans. But I nip that monster in the bud by saying things like, “I heard you the first time” or, “You just said that” or “OK ALREADY.” What I’m mostly amazed by is the parents’ patience and/or ability to ignore the endless loop. Do they not hear? Do they not care? Can they tune it out?  Okay, so maybe I’m not judging the parenting but jealous of it. Whichever.

Parents who carry their older kids’ belongings  Listen, to each her own but why in god’s name should I be carrying your back-pack when you are, say, nine? You: Young and able. Me: Your boss. In fact, here’s my bag, thanks.

Parents who take their kids’ garbage for them.  I recently watched a mom let her 10-ish and 12-ish year-olds toss the wrappers from their snacks at her. Like, they opened the snacks and threw the wrappers in their mom’s general direction. The wrappers landed on the floor of the bus. The mom picked them up and continued their conversation as if nothing had transpired. This was not the first time I witnessed something like this. Even my rule-challenging boy child knows not to throw garbage at/toward/near me nor does he hand me wrappers. Not because I’m parent of the year but because there are garbage cans on every corner. Also, it’s not my garbage.

So here I sit, not judging. I like to call it observing and complaining a little. Because here’s the thing: Unlike parenting choices like co-sleeping which is really none of my damn beeswax, when your parenting is affecting my life, I feel I have a small right to have an Opinion. How does whether a parent carries her kid’s stuff affect me, you may ask? It doesn’t. But work with me here. I too am doing my best.