Yes, I’m a mom. I’m a very proud, happy mom of a tenacious, creative, wonderful five-year-old girl. But just because I’m a mom doesn’t mean you get to put your media-fueled, Mama’s Got the Magic of Chlorox assumptions and stereotypes on me!

Case in point: We go to the Home Depot each month for the cool building workshops they have. These are free and we really appreciate them (as well as the Lowe’s ones we regularly attend every two weeks). While in line, waiting for our supplies, we overhear the father and son in front of us being told that there would be painting this week. “Ooh, paint!” I tell my daughter, though I am a little annoyed that it wasn’t listed on the website. They never paint, and though we love to paint, we did have a library class to attend immediately afterward, and I know that painting takes time. I don’t like to rush her.

When it’s our turn, instead of talking about how much fun it’s going to be as they did with the father and son duo in front of us, the helper tells me, “They’re painting today, Mom, but don’t worry, it’s washable!”

Um, no, I’m not your mom. I hate when people say things like that. Don’t call me mom and I won’t call you grandma.

But what really bothered me was her assumption that I would have a fit over the painting, that I would worry it would stain my kid’s clothes. She didn’t seem to have that assumption with the father in front of me. I wanted to say, “Do I look like I give a rat’s a** about paint on clothing?” and point to my own paint stains, which are on about 50% of my clothing. We get messy in our house!

So that’s what I ended up saying, instead. “Oh, paint is nothing. We get messy in our house every day, don’t we?” My daughter nodded enthusiastically, grabbing her kit. I noticed that she was the only child who used several colors on her project—a pencil box—as well as that she was the only child who didn’t get much parental help. (I held the nails while she hammered them first, then let go once they were established in the wood—just as my father, a carpenter, taught me when I was her age.) A few kids were afraid to get their hands dirty, though most wanted to paint while exasperated parents cried, “Oh, give it here!” and painted the boxes themselves.

I didn’t rush her. That wouldn’t have been fair, and I know I would have hated that myself if it had been me. We made it to the library with five minutes to spare—right on time.

And at the library, instead of making the flower project the librarian had prepared, my daughter arranged them differently to make a flashlight. She returned the extra heart-shaped “petals” the librarian had made and said, “Yours is very pretty, but I made a flashlight instead!” I never would have had the guts to do that at her age, fearing that my project might be “wrong.”

Yes, it’s silly to put assumptions on people; you never know who you might be standing next to. And I’ll happily wear my paint stains with pride, thanks; though most were self-inflicted, many were from my little Wood Sprite.