Seated at the fancy Grand Hotel, in Mackinac Island, I started to sweat. A slight panic attack lurked in the back of my mind as I glanced down at the fine china on the table, the assortment of silverware around the place setting, and our two young kids eyeballing them with wonder and mischief.

We were on vacation and had biked over to the swankiest resort on the island, a gorgeous hotel full of history and expensive decor, to fork out a small fortune and stuff our bellies with the lunch buffet.

I ate my meal in a state of heightened alertness, whispering quick reminders to my kids not to use the butter knife as a drum stick, and to “please use your napkin instead of your forearm to wipe off that glob of fruit on your chin.” I prayed they wouldn’t spill that heavy crystal goblet of lemonade under the eyes of the older folks surrounding us that were probably ridiculously rich and ridiculously annoyed by young children.

Despite all my anxiety, we ate our shrimp cocktail, high-end mac and cheese and piled-too-high plates of the teeniest pastries without much drama. Sure, there were some small mishaps. And the tablecloth didn’t fare well. But we didn’t get kicked out, either.

At the end of our meal, as we pushed back our chairs to leave, the woman next to us leaned over and said, “Excuse me.”

I thought she was going to tell me the back of my daughter’s dress was crammed into her underpants. Or that we’d left a flip-flop under the table.

Instead, I heard her say, “I just wanted to tell you, your kids were so amazingly well-behaved! And I have nine grand-kids, so I know what I’m talking about. They’re not all like that.”

I blushed with embarrassment. My kids gave her a quick “thank you” as they rushed out of the dining room to pounce on the plush, circular sofa in the lobby, and I expressed my gratitude for her lovely comment.

Then I immediately felt ashamed.

Ashamed that I’d thought less of my children and didn’t give them the benefit of the doubt.

My kids are good kids. And I need to remember that.

Being in public magnifies the lens in which I view my kids. Every noise they utter sounds like it’s coming through a bullhorn. Every wiggle seems like I’m seated with a tribe of monkeys. Every fork drop sounds like parental failure.

But when I really step back to see my kids for who they are, they are good, well-behaved children.

They remember to use their Excuse Me’s, Please’s, Thank You’s and May I’s. They have the ability to remain at their seats and not run around like lunatics anymore. And they listen to me and my husband (for the most part) when we ask them to do something. They are considerate and kind and adorably charming.

And they are children.

Yes, they are curious. Yes, they can be loud. Yes, they are not quite the masters of the fork and spoon and napkin as I would like. But they are not the pack of wild animals my mind makes them out to be.

It’s so easy for me to feel as if my kids’ behavior is a reflection of me as a parent and a person. But my kids are NOT me. They’re not even an extension of myself. I need to let them be, and trust that I’ve given them the tools they need to get by in public. And I have, because they’re doing it, and doing it beautifully.

It just took a total stranger to make me see it.

When it comes down to it, that lunch at the Grand Hotel was more my issue than theirs. My sense of paranoia was more about how I thought we would be perceived than it was because of any history of rotten behavior on my children’s part.

In the future, I’ll stress out less when we’re out as a family. I’ll remember that my kids are good kids. Even with fruit smeared on their faces.