It's never, ever a good thing when a total stranger stops you in the hotel hallway and asks, "Do you have a son named Zack?"
The correct answer is, "No, you must have me confused with someone else." And then run in the other direction.
Going with that first instinct was the right idea. Unfortunately, I chose the honest route and said, cringing, "Yes - why do you ask?" Hoping against hope that it was "I just wanted to tell you what a cute kid he is!"
As it turns out, Zack was locked inside a stall in the men's room, where the door went all the way to the floor so he couldn't crawl under, and crying because Brad had pushed him and now his thumb hurt. I'm guessing that there was some amount of yelling and/or angry threats exchanged, or else how would this guy have known my kids names? And come to think of it, why exactly did he think I was their mother in the first place? I could have been just some random person in the hotel. Do I have "Brow-Beaten Mom" tattooed on my forehead? Or did one of the kids stick a note on my back that says "Blame Me!"
Fortunately, Zack managed to unlock the door while I was getting the hotel manager to come over with a key. In the meantime, I was ready to die of embarrassment and also to lock Brad in a bathroom for a little while. Or myself. Maybe if I was really quiet they'd forget me in there, and then I can have a nice, anonymous life where no one stops me to tell me something horrifying about my kids. Sure, I'd have to live in the bathroom, but I'm thinking that's a pretty attractive option right now.