In public places, one may sometimes encounter a variety of mother who audibly narrates her young child’s activities, in a sing-song, faux-pre-school teacher manner. At the grocery store, “Yes, Aidan, that’s broccoli! You love broccoli.” Waiting at the doctor’s office, “Baby?! You see the baby? Yes, that baby has a pacifier like you, but yours is only for nigh, nigh.” Crossing the street, she may look both ways in an exaggerated manner. In a public restroom, she may burst into a “hand-washing song.” On the playground, she may be seen hovering beside her child, tissue at the ready. Wherever she is, her continuous voluble narration is unstoppable. The outside observer might wonder if this steady stream of commentary allows this mother to make it through a mind-numbingly dull day. Or, perhaps, she believes that this semi-instructive patter will benefit her child more if delivered in loud saccharine tones. Or, she may believe her monologue will demonstrate her skill as a mother. Maybe she has not yet realized that the world is indifferent to what she says to her child in the grocery store and that no one doubts that she is, indeed, the person best qualified to raise her child. Even without the sing-song drivel.