This one is inset in a large locker room, with a door that barely muffles the delighted squeals of that toddler in the shower who already has Mariah Carey-ian aspirations. There is actually a sign on this noneffective door that says "All ye who enter must be older than 18." One would sense the difference between the general locker room and the adult locker room immediately: In my locker room, women talk about Pampered Chef. In the other locker room, filled with mommies, the "-ed Chef" part is silent.
There is a reason for this segregation.
Today I walked into the big-girl locker room to find that clearly we had stopped carding at the door. There, piddling around naked and squeaking, was a 3 year old girl and her obviously illiterate mom. For the 12 minutes it took me to figure out how my new bangs will negatively impact my workout and change into something from GI Jane's fall collection, the toddler sang "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round." All 27 verses. And she was encouraged to do so by her mother, who even helped her when she couldn't remember what the horn on the bus says, instead of saying what I would have said in her situation:
"Hey wait a minute, Missy. You're not 18. If you were, you'd know this shit. It's 'Beep-beep-beep.' Alright, c'mon. Off to the shower. We'll work on 'Always be my Baby' instead."
I'm a nice-ish person. I think kids are cute. I schooled my friend T's tot at soccer this past weekend, and held my friend Dude's baby for about 10 very pleasant minutes. I wouldn't mind having my own at some point, I just hope my urges explode before my girl-parts give their last sad little cough.
But this was really annoying. When I walk into a room that assures me I will only encounter people older than 18, I expect that to be true. I don't expect to see something 2-feet tall inspecting my purse, then hiding in a locker singing "whoosh-whoosh-whoosh." What if I had some sort of sports bra as a sling shot malfunction? I don't want that on my conscience.
Can you imagine how much of an asshole I would have sounded like if I'd said "Can you get her out of here? Her little squeaky Lollipop Guild voice is making my brain bleed."
I tried to think of how to combat this situation. Maybe speak this mama's language so she understands. My counterattack: The next time it happens, I'm going to Kids Club and performing the karaoke version of Liz Phair's "Fuck and Run." Like "The Wheels on the Bus," it's catchy. The kiddies will love it.
I'll show that Mommy inappropriate.