Dear idiot woman who brought her newborn to the demolition derby last weekend,

You did know that Saturday night was, like, the big night at the fair, right? The one where dozens of stripped down cars with hardly any hoods or mufflers are driven by good ol’ boys who intentionally run into one another until said vehicles die (aka: BEST NIGHT EVER!)?

You know such a spectacle is loud, right? That’s why we call them smash ‘em ups.

So please tell me: why, why, why would you bring a maybe 3-week-old to a piercingly loud explosion of metal and revving engines? Did you see your baby’s face during the crashing? Did you see that the helpless little guy’s face was contorted into a look of pure terror, much like the poor soul from The Scream?

I honestly think he was so scared that he did not know how to cry. You had him sitting on your knee, face turned out, and each time an engine revved or metal crunched, his wee brows would furrow, his nose would scrunch up, his eyes would widen and mouth would form a perfect O. In as much as a newborn’s eyes can dart, they did, desperately searching for the cause of the madness.

My heart ached for your son. You ruined the last round of a fabulous battle of crunching cars, as I could not take my eyes off him and his obvious bewilderment. It was all I could do to keep my jeaned butt planted and not snatch him out of your arms and home to a warm bed where he should have been.

Surely there was someone who could have watched your son for you. And if not? You should have been a mom, put him before you, and stayed home.

Sincerely,

The frustrated woman in the pink sweater two rows down, currently dismounting off her judgmental steed.

Possibly related posts:

1. Those people with lots of babies are selling their stuff again!
2. Deep thoughts on babies
3. Stupid green-eyed monster
4. The final excuse needed
5. Why I was stupid enough to help him, I don’t know (let’s help Colleen instead)