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Creeks aren't all in this world that are shallow. For example, some women proudly self-polish their size-seven Manolos, have great big diamond rings, 2.3 kids, 4.6 nannies, handsome husbands who should have 'cheater' tattooed on their various appendages, and the luxury of staying home during the day in their McHouses while deciding if their cleaning women need to work on the invisible dust bunnies in the living room or the pictures drawn on the walls by the 2.3 kids. I, conversely, have the luxury of an adoring and adorable husband, a beautiful wedding ring, one child, and the luxury of writing from home. I like my son's creativity being part of our decor (it can always be painted over when he's older). And dust bunnies? Hell, yeah, we've got those too. AND? Now, to the point: On a particularly beautiful February day (read: 65°), I picked my son up from his elementary school and decided we could both use the fresh air of one of the parks in our college town. Winter had been as stuffy as a Republican, and we needed something new to do. So off we went to the park. He and I had both slipped and fallen in the little creek there last year, so a reunion with said park was due. With hopefully no slippage this time. I found a bench on which to settle myself while still being able to watch Dylan do headstands and hang upside-down from monkey bars underneath the perfect, brilliant, Carolina-blue sky. Dylan is 4'1" and five years old. Imagining grounding him when he's twelve frightens me. I'll never be able to get him into his room: "I'm BIGGER than you, Mom!!" But I digress. He was playing happily and made a new friend, whose name was also Dylan. The Dylans had mud on their jeans, grass in their hair, and toothy grins. They came. They saw. They chased. They acted five years old. Meanwhile, a woman sat down next to me on the creaky bench without so much as saying, "Hello," which, I suppose, was fine, because we were complete strangers. She then proceeded to take out her cell phone and have an animated coversation on it with someone about why her Pampered Chef party had been rescheduled and how dreadful it was that it was going to interfere with her scrapbooking conference. What a conflict. I remained silent, eyes trained on the Dylans. I couldn't tell which child was Pampered's, but I had a feeling it was the blond boy in the school uniform who boasted a blindingly white polo-style shirt. The boy, who appeared six-ish, seemed afraid to swing, much less jump into the sandbox. I shrugged and fingered the peace-sign pendant I was wearing. Soaking up the sun hadn't felt this good in years; it was like grace. My Dylan and the other Dylan had, meanwhile, found sticks that they were using as Power Ranger Megazords (play-weapons). "Ka-Pow! Gotcha!" And then they chased each other around in pursuit of eternal Power Ranger glory. Pampered was still on her phone, grousing about not having a good tan yet (Hello? It's, um, FEBRUARY.), and how her last pedicure had gone all wrong and she had refused to pay the salon for it. "I, like, asked for MAUVE, not PINK! They told me I still had to pay! Can you beLIEVE IT?" I wanted to offer her a can of Tab. Like, totally. The Dylans were getting dangerously close to the creek (I still couldn't tell if Dylan No. 2 had a parent present), so I asked Pampered to hold my spot on the bench for me. She was still dishing to her friend on the phone about the injustices of life, but motioned that she'd hold my spot. I got the boys away from the creek, returned to my sunny spot on the bench, and found Pampered to be off the phone. About ten minutes later, a woman our age, if not a few years younger, and about as big around as a grasshopper's leg, saw Pampered. "OH! MY! GAWD!" both squealed. Hugs between the two were exchanged. Grasshopper dumped all of her stuff on the bench (I was beginning to get shoved off, and was not the least bit OK with it, because I'd been there before either of them) and then went reluctantly after her two children. An aside: How can people who are empty inside lug around Louis Vuitton bags literally overflowing with ... nothing? It's a mystery. Grasshopper: "Don't you HATE it when you get BOTH of them out and they, like, go in opposite directions (Yeah, lady. They're doing it simply to annoy you.)?" Pampered: "I KNOW! It's such a PAIN." Grasshopper: "Hey, what's with the two dirty boys up on the top of the jungle gym with the big sticks?" Pampered: "I don't know, but I hope they don't hurt anyone." Me: *GRIMACE* Grasshopper: "I HATE parents who don't pay attention to their kids. Kids like that are the kind that end up shooting up schools. I swear ..." Me (unable to be silent anymore): "ExCUSE me?" Grasshopper (disdainfully, because her ring was an eighth of a carat bigger than mine): "I was just telling her that kids who wave sticks like that around and pretend to shoot are just asking to become psychopaths. Parents of kids like that should do something before it's too late!" Pampered: "I agree." Me: "What if they're just playing 'Power Rangers?'" Grasshopper: "You can't know that that's all they're doing. Just watch. When they grow up, they'll take out a whole school!" Me: "See the strawberry-blond boy?" Grasshopper: "Oh, yeah, the more aggressive one? Do you know anything about him?" Me: "He's my child. My son. He's five. He's on the Principal's Honor Roll. And he's playing Megazord with his friend." Pampered: *grandmotherly tone* "Remind him that he's only playing; not really shooting anyone." Me: "Do YOU see a round of ammo around here anywhere?!" I was really wishing I had that can of Tab to hand her. Or dump on her. Grasshopper: "But they're all dirty and muddy and nasty!" Me: "There's mud on the ground, which I let my child - who's a BOY - play in. Kids are washable. I promise. Let them be boys. And if they didn't get dirty, there wouldn't be anything for you to gripe about cleaning up." Grasshopper: "Harumph." Pampered: "Uh-oh, here comes Jared." Jared: *in tears* "Mommy! I'm sooooo, soooooo sorry! I fell from the bars into the sandbox!" Pampered (who's going all drill sergeant): "Young man, this means I'm going to have to BLEACH that shirt tonight. Do you understand? When I tell you that you can't get in the dirt, I MEAN it. Do NOT do this again." Jared (tearfully): "OK, Mommy. I'm really sorry. Can I climb the jungle gym? Pampered (scans jungle gym for the Dylans): "Yes, but only if you're the only one up there. And do NOT fall again." And women like this think MY child is going to inflict damage on others? Why can't children be children anymore? Why do they have to speak three languages, be part of every play group in every school zone, and memorize all presidents' names before age 4? Why do shallow, self-centered mothers reproduce multiple times when they clearly cannot stand to care for their first offspring (I had to have surgery, and if I hadn't, I'd have at least three children now)? These kids'll be introducing their nannies as Mom and their moms by their first names at high school graduation. I let Dylan bring his 'Megazord' home. He and his puppy had a great time playing tug-of-war with it in the backyard. Until Dylan slipped and fell in dog poop. But after I put him in the washing machine and his clothes in the tub, all was fine ... |
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| Term Papers December 7, 2009 12:21 AM PST  Great info, i glad to see this blog, such an informative article, Thanks for share this. | ||
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| Term Paper December 2, 2009 03:40 AM PST I gotta hand it to whoever wrote this, you've really kept me updated! Now, let's just hope that I can come across another blog just as interesting :) | ||
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