Although I did refrain from eating a Big Mac, a lot of other fine folk had some huge helpings of McCranky Nuggets, dipped in Pissy sauce. Can parents please not pick fights with other parents at the Ronald McDonald play area? Is it such a big deal that one person's kid is half a centimeter taller than the Grimace sign? Would it be so difficult for the manager to just find a key, or a screwdriver, to open the enclosed plastic bubble bin and rescue my newphew's lost Thomas train? And why does the mother of the teen who rescued Sophie from the big scary overhead netting (the kind that looks like those grates on farm roads that catch cows by locking their hoofs in their openings) have to scream at her daughter "Nooooooooo! Don't do that!", causing her to almost drop my Pipsqueak. And then, when I tell the mother I said it was okay, why does Mom have to then say "No, it's not okay. It's a liability!"
Maybe the mom was right. Perhaps her Abercrombie and Fitch prep school daughter was really a fifty year old child molester and she's saving me years of emotional damage. Perhaps the man who yelled at the young mom to get her tall boy out of the slide area was dying of testicular cancer. Maybe the manager just couldn't deal with fishing out a train that probaby cost more than she makes in an hour.
All I know is that everyone is cranky today. And, sadly, I still have to make dinner. And, less sadly, but a time concern anyway, I need to write.
And bathe my kids.
And clean my floor before the only things not cranky are the cockroaches.
Here's to a better tomorrow with less McDrama and more Happy Meals.