Dear parents whom I judged because you said you simply couldn’t get your kid to eat. I knew in my infinite 25 year old wisdom that you merely had to MAKE your child eat the food. Simple. As. That. Now as I sit on the other side, parenting my own kids, I want you to know, dear parents of non-eating kid, I remember you and I am sorry for passing judgement. I am sorry for every delicious or intricate meal (more than five minutes prep) you make while your child watches in disgust and says, just on the verge of vomiting, “Why can’t we be like normal families and just eat mac and cheese every night.”

Dear dad whom I judged for yelling at your kid from the sidelines for walking the entire soccer game, only solidifying in my mind that your child would be scarred for life because of your impatience and lack of tenderness, I remember you and I am sorry. I will join you in therapy as we discuss our children who begged to play a wide assortment of youth sports, dragging us here, there and yonder carrying bags full of bats and balls and gloves and cleats only to walk their way through the game, informing you they are simply to tired to exert full effort. All while you, having put in a 40 hour work week, balance the other non sporting kids on the sidelines, mentally anticipate another work day, wonder if you fed the dog, paid the electric bill and fully answered that last email before leaving work. Yes, that seven year old must be so tired from their non-job, non-parenting, no responsibility life.

Let’s get a group rate at that therapist, ok?

Dear dad I judged for having little nose picker kids, I remember you and I am sorry.

Dear mom whom I judged because your kids were worse than the last guy and stuck their finger in their nose and THEN in their mouth, I remember you, I gag with you and I am sorry. Just so very sorry.

Dear parents who couldn’t get your act together to make it to soccer on time, leading me to believe that you were neglectful parents and pretty much bumbling morons, I remember you and I am sorry.  I will salute you as I arrive five minutes late dragging a kid who is crying over shin guards and an untied cleat. I will fist pump you in solidarity while the ‘together’ parents collaborate about how together their lives are at the other end of the field. Oh, who are we kidding? Those people don’t exist.

Dear mom who came to church beautifully dressed but had the kid who arrived in sandals that didn’t match or fit and I assumed you didn’t have your life together, I remember you and I am sorry. I will pray for you as I screech into service fifteen minutes late, barely catching the communion servers as they exit the sanctuary, thanking Jesus I was able to throw my kids into their Sunday school class wearing glorified pajamas. Holy Spirit, fall fresh on me.

Dear dad who looked so dead inside because your pre-teen daughter spent your entire outdoor lunch date singing Jessica Simpson songs at the absolute loudest volume ever, eliciting stares and eye rolls from other patrons and also general passerbyers, I remember you and I am sorry. I think of you when I answer, “When will I make it on America’s Got Talent?” or “What song should I use to audition for The Voice? Would you like to hear it again?” Yes, yes, sweet love, I would love to hear your falsetto and the entire blasted soundtrack from The Greatest Showman at least eight more times before bed. This will ensure I hear it in my sleep. And not the Hugh Jackman or Zac Efron version but rather the nine year old girl version, full of interesting octave choice and odd lyrics.

Dear mom who caused me to mumble meanness under my breath because you failed to adequately discipline (in my eyes) your child and rather ignored her eighty gazillion pleas for candy throughout every aisle of Target, I remember you and I am sorry. I wish I could cup your face in my hands and let you know that I have taken my own death stares from other adults after ignoring my child because they asked, were answered and then continued to ask. Eighty. Gazillion. More. Times. God help the Target employees for having to hear it. God help us for having to live it. God help us all.

Dear mom who had to pull your child, kicking and screaming off the mall carousel and everyone looked at you like you were a child abuser/predator/kidnapper. I remember you and I am sorry. For any and all of us who have used the football cradle to rush a child, midway through a full-fledged freak out, out of a public space, I honor you today with my tears.

Dear dad who let your kid eat (but primarily spill) goldfish throughout the entire produce section at the grocery and I assumed your life was in shambles, I remember you and I am sorry.

Dear mom whom I assumed couldn’t stand her kids because she signed them up for every Vacation Bible School in town in order to catch a break during the summer, I remember you and I am sorry. Go with God as you display popsicle art all summer.

Dear dad who mentally zoned out in public places because (I assumed) you were a drug addict, deadbeat dad or both but really you just had three kids, I remember you and I’m sorry. May you have, at minimum, one day where you can truly act like a deadbeat. I hope this recent Father’s Day weekend brought you a chunk of time to ignore your entire family by hiding on the golf course, man cave or work shop.

Hey mom whose van caused me to turn my nose up because it looked like the dumpster at Chic-Fil-A, filled to the brim with week old chicken nuggets, milk cartons and petrified fries, I remember you and I am sorry. I have also traded my fast, cute car for a swagger wagon full of rancid sippy cups. I no longer remember how to drive a manual transmission but can expertly swat a leg in the backseat while going 60mph and screaming threats back at the third row. I could feed a family of eight with the unidentified proteins found under the seat. I found a gallon of milk in the trunk nearly a week after purchasing it. True story. You, van driving mom, are my sister.

Dear Mom who opened your door wide enough for me to make a delivery and see kids running wild through a disaster of a home, complete with saggy diapers and snotty noses while the dog peed on your rug, I remember you and I am sorry. You are my people. You are all of our people. We should have our own red carpet event and dip your hands in cement in Hollywood.

Dear parents who lived on my street while I was a singleton, complete with your two car garage that housed zero cars but no less than seventy thousand bazillion bicycles, forty wagons and sixteen strollers, I remember you and I am sorry. I think of you as I try to hold back the profanities as I navigate a bag of groceries through our garage via the death trap of precariously stacked wheels. One misstep and I not only lose the bag of produce but cascade bikes off their perch and into eternity.

Hey lady who walked through Sam’s Club in an attempt to get a few last minute groceries. You, lady….you I judged most of all. You irritated me to no end. You with three screaming children, each one literally hanging off your dress. Children screeching with such volume that it brought stares from shoppers ten aisles away. You, lady, who couldn’t control your kids. Lady who just couldn’t for the life of you get one. single. kid. to listen to one. solitary. request. that came out of your mouth. Lady who drew raised eyebrows and head shakes from everyone you encountered. Lady who watched said head shakers nearly pass out when they spotted your gigantic belly that screamed of the impending arrival of another non-listening, glass-breaking-loud, dress hanging little deviant. I remember you.

Because I was you. And I am so very sorry.

Today, moms and dads, let’s tip our hats to all those in the trenches of parenthood. Give a knowing head nod or smile to those we encounter. Most importantly, if you’re in the middle of raising little or big ones, afford yourself the same kindness. Most of us are simply doing the best we can with our nose picking, dress hanging, Jessica Simpson singing, snotty nosed, fry dropping little offspring.

Solidarity. Head bow. Chest bump.