You get what you get.

Last week, Bean, Toot, and I met my sisters and their kids at Davis Farm, which is a Central Massachusetts glorious wonderland for toddlers and preschoolers. It's basically an enormous petting zoo with a splash park and about a dozen play areas, including pedal go-carts, an entire playhouse village, and several playgrounds and playground-sized sand pits. Pony rides. Hay rides. It's ridiculous. When we go in the spring, we're there for the babies: lambs, kids, chicks, emus, calves, ducklings, and Marley's favorite, the poults (baby turkeys - you learn something new everyday). When we go in the summer, it's all about the splash park.

Anyhow, last week we got there just after Davis opened. I pulled my crossover SUV in the rapidly-filling lot alongside all the others and loaded up my carriage with kids and baby gear and an insulated bag of snacks, pushing towards the entrance alongside all the others. (The first few times I did this, I cringed and tried denying that I had joined the Mommy Brigade. Whatever. Now I'm all, "Hey, kids, who wants to sing whatever Noggin song is currently playing on repeat in our heads?")

But not all moms are alike. And this is where my story gets interesting. To me, at least. Heather, Future Farmer/Lion Tamer/Veterinarian Riley, and Owen wanted some animal time at the farm and Marley wanted to get right to the water. So we veered to the left and as Heather pushed her stroller to the right, she called, "Oh, good! You can get us a table!" There are only so many picnic tables situated around the splash park, you see. And since we were there early, when we rolled up, we had our pick. Except for one, that I noticed was - get ready - SAVED with a line of coolers and beach bags. And then while Marley scurried through primary-colored sprinklers and Rudy splashed in a shallow puddle beside overflowing troughs of chlorinated water, I started noticing other saved tables covered with beach towels. And I watched a couple of moms wheel their strollers over, cover plastic, pastel Adirondack chairs and then wheel on out. Are you filling with rage? Because I am, just writing about it.

So, then I started getting all righteous and taking pictures with my phone. Because you know what?

These moms are gross.

And they're teaching their kids to look out for number one, and I know exactly what kinds of bitches they were in high school, and I know exactly which parents they'll be when their kids are in high school and they have to meet with the guidance counselors and teachers because the homework's not getting done. I've been the teacher at those meetings. And those parents are gross. And you know what else? One of the tidy tables you see above was still just holding someone's place after noon when the splash park was filled.

How about "You get what you get and you don't get upset?" How about waiting your turn? Playing fair? Being patient? Or making f-ing do? Listen, I'm not perfect. Noooo, I am not. But this kind of thing is a slippery slope of entitlement. It's, "Oh, everyone else can just work out what they need after I've taken care of myself," and it infuriates me and my little do-unto-others, hustle-for your-playing-time, read-a-book-already-kids, heart. And I know there have been a lot of things written lately about how moms judge each other too often, sizing up others' parenting when they should be supportive, and it takes a village. I know.

But let me be clear [shout-out to Obama]: When you're putting your own personal red velvet rope around a picnic table at Davis Farm? I'm judging you. And you're gross.