Owing the Public

My first baby was a few weeks old and Az and I decided to go out to eat.  We had moved to our current neighborhood when I was eight months pregnant, and we still hoped that we would find some little hole-in-the-wall restaurant with great food.  I have always been partial to diners and comfort food, so we decided to visit a little, ordinary place called Julia-Marie’s Family Dining.

It was small but clean, with the standard 1950’s style tables and vinyl chairs.  There were a few other customers.  There was a television in the corner, playing a videotape of an old Elvis movie.  Clambake, maybe, or Blue Hawaii.  We ordered the special off the menu and waited for our food.

After a few minutes we noticed that there was a woman sitting on the floor by the tv.  She was the eponymous Julia Marie.  A few more minutes and she noticed us.  Actually, she noticed baby JellyBean.  She came over to our table, and from the pinched shape of her eyes and mouth, we realized that she was mentally handicapped.  She made a few vowels sounds of excitement, and then she lunged at our baby.

I was a very protective mother, especially given JellyBean’s issues as an infant.  I know there were times that I felt my first baby was threatened that, now as a more experienced mother, I would not view the same way.  But this was not one of those times.  I was not overreacting.  Julie, as her parents called her, kept trying to grab my newborn baby by the head and pull her away from me.  Az and I were grabbing Julie’s arms and saying, “No no no no no no.”  Her parents, apparently the owners of the restaurant, came over and told her that this baby was not a doll, and they tried to distract her with other things.  It was not very successful.

During a brief period that Julie was distracted, I put JellyBean in her car seat, reasoning that Julie could not grab her fragile head as easily that way. We put the car seat in the chair next to the wall, and and Az and I each ate with one arm free, sheltering the car seat from Julie on her next forray.  It was one of the most anxious meals of my life.

The next time Julie came back, I tried to chat easily with her, though I was still far from comfortable.  “This is my baby.  She is four weeks old.  Her name is [JellyBean].  Can you say [JellyBean]?”  I had not paid close attention before; she was not capable of speaking much beyond a grunt, but she was intelligent enough to be conscious of her limitation.  When I asked her if she could say by daughter’s name, she glared at me, turned up her nose and stalked away.  She did not visit our table again.  If I could have planned it, I would have.

I remembered this incident when I read Carmen’s post about her daughter’s terror at a local park.  Carmen wondered whether or not she should have explained her daughter’s particular issues to strangers.  She framed the question in terms of “What Do You Owe the Public?“  In the case of Carmen’s daughter, she was terrified of a loose dog, and there’s no question that Carmen’s little girl suffered the most in that situation.

Many of Carmen’s commenters voiced the opinion that she owed the public nothing, no explanation.  I am inclined to agree, at least in terms of “owing.”  When a child is frightened, what else matters beyond easing the fear?  But the question reminded me of that restaurant experience almost five years ago, and I wondered if some of the commenters would make the same insistence that the public is owed nothing, when the child’s issues make her the aggressor.

Julie’s inability to understand the fragility of a baby made her the aggressor who was acting unsafely toward our daughter.  What did Julie’s parents owe the public, or, in particular, us?

Even at the time, I thought that Julie’s parents were fortunate to run their own business where they could make their daughter welcome and structure the environment to suit her.  When we left that restaurant, I was a little surprised that Julie’s parents made no apology to us for their daughter’s behavior, but even then I thought they must get tired of people expecting apologies.  Perhaps they’ve decided never to apologize, feeling it’s a betrayal of their daughter.

The only definite opinion I had was that they should not have called their place a “family” restaurant.  That title implies certain promises about the suitability of a place for children.  If babies are not welcome and safe at your restaurant, then don’t call it a family restaurant.  But beyond that, I don’t know that anything could have gone differently.  This is part of the complicated nature of life together, each of us stepping on each other’s toes in ways we never predicted.  I am glad that no one was really hurt.

I don’t know what happened to Julie and her parents.  We never went back to the restaurant.  It closed, as have two of its successors.  It’s a difficult location for a restaurant.  But I think of them every now and then, and wonder.

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