When I’m out in public with my kids and I hear another kid crying or throwing a temper tantrum<\/a>, I’m not proud of the first thought that crosses my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the first second after hearing it, my shoulders tense up. I hold my breath. I freeze<\/strong> in the middle of the grocery store aisle, my hands tight on the shopping cart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then my mind catches up to the fact that the racket is coming from someone else’s kid, and the relief washes over me. I can breathe, I keep pushing the cart, and I think…<\/p>\n\n\n\n Thank goodness it’s not mine.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I wish<\/strong> my first instinct were to feel empathy for my fellow parent. To flash her the District 12 three-finger salute<\/a> as a sign of solidarity. But it takes me a few seconds to get there. By the time I do, the moment has passed. We’ve moved to another aisle of the store, or the parent has whisked the kid outside away from prying strangers’ eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n