An open letter.

Dear Elevator Mom,

Yes, I'm talking to you.  Remember me? You probably don't, but I bet you might remember my darling child.  She was the 18 month old screaming in the elevator because, less than two minutes prior, she had gotten three shots in her sweet little legs.

Remember, now? Yeah. There you were. . . smacking and relentlessly popping your chewing gum with your bad dye job. Your pre-teen boy had his head stuck in a video game so, lucky for him, he wasn't the target of your roaming stink eye. I think if I were your child, I'd probably play a video game instead of talk to you, too.

Lucky for me and Harp, you were so void of thought that the only thing on your to-do list was to stare at a crying toddler with a disapproving look on your face. And when she dropped her paci at your feet because she was crying so hard and you wouldn't pick it up? Well, that's just special. Bless your heart.  It's not like I had my hands full or anything.

Lucky for you, if I hadn't been carrying the 3ft. screaming toddler, her coat, her hat, my coat, her blanket, my diaper bag and pushing a stroller with a purse and medical records in it, I would have punched you square in your unpowdered, shiny, red nose.

Until we meet again.