Either I'm getting old or this parenting thing has fried my brain. Movies are my thing and for the life of me I can't remember the movie that I want to reference.
There's some movie where the two characters are spies or hitmen or something and they're sitting down having a conversation. On the surface they're trying to be civil, but each one has a gun pointed at the other underneath the table. Neither has the intention to harm the other, but at the same time their instincts won't allow them to let their guard down. (I'm like seriously pissed at myself for not being able to remember the movie. I can't get old man. I just can't.) Well anyway, that's what happened to me at the playground yesterday. Actually, now that I think about it, that's what happens to me at the playground everyday.
It never occurred to me pre-baby that I would have to talk to so many strangers once my daughter was born. My wife says I'm antisocial, but that's just because she's a social moth. My job is to keep her country mouse self away from the flame. What she calls antisocial, I call a survival mechanism. When you grow up in the city the first thing you learn is to not speak to anyone. The moral of every story on the news back in 1980s DC was "Don't talk to strangers."
It didn't matter if it was a kidnapping, murder, rape or gas main explosion. Somewhere in there somebody said hello to someone else and it was curtains for them. That's why if you ever see me on the street, you'll think I'm the angriest person in the world. I have my fists balled up, I walk real fast and I wear a really convincing scowl. I call it my "90 Bus/ Green Line Face." And man, has that thing kept me safe over the years. It's like my favorite jacket or something. Those homeless people selling Street Sense newspapers see it and immediately leave me the hell alone. The same goes for the person talking about how he lost his farecard and needs 60 cents to get to the shelter.
Anyway, now that I have a kid I can't wear my favorite face as much. This is especially true on the playground. The shitty parents plop down on a bench and start playing with their phones. I follow her around like a Secret Service Agent and that brings me back to my original point about the two spies/hitmen/whatever in the restaurant. I'm not the only parent who does this and when that happens, there's always a little dance between me and that other parent.
It begins with a fake smile and a simple hello. In that one exchange, however, I'm sizing that person up. Even if you are a 5'2" middle aged white woman with a limp, I don't trust you. I'm with Wednesday Addams on this one: "Where's your costume little girl? I'm a homicidal maniac. They look just like everyone else." Everyone is a suspect on the playground as far as I'm concerned. I'm following my daughter around just in case one of those parents is faster than me and has a van waiting around the corner.
You may think I'm paranoid, but those parents are doing the same damned thing. Real recognizes real, you know. You don't really care about where I got her jacket. You know how I know? Because your kid is wearing a Circo sweater which was right next to this jacket in Target. The fact that your kid has on Circo jeans as well, lets me know that you shop there exclusively. Still, we do this little dance to keep up the visage of civility.
Sadly this distrust extends to their kid as well. Spend enough time around kids and you pretty much become The Oracle. I have the gift now, Neo. I can see beyond time. I know that the little bastard who keeps hitting girls, but never tries it with the boys has a 90% chance of being a wifebeater. That kid who keeps coming over to tell my daughter that she's not building the sandcastle correctly is gonna be a manager one day...the kind you hate and pray calls out sick everyday. These are the kids my daughter chooses to hang around. Not because she's innocent and not discerning, but because my daughter, herself, has a bright future as Xena Warrior Princess or the first woman to fight a co-ed boxing match.
For that reason, above all others, I hover around. I'm the Secret Service agent who protects the public from the President. My daughter lost her mind and conjured the spirit of "I wanna go live in foster care" one day and she hit me. I won't lie. It kinda hurt. I had to remind myself, not that I love her and that she's a child, but of how much money I've invested so far in toys, healthcare and her actual birth. I've spent too much to scrap the project and take her out of this world. So, instead I let it go. But I never forget that if she can hurt a grown man, she will probably kill another child.
Maybe the other parent had a similar experience. That's why we're always taking blame when the other kid does something. "Oh no, Johnny let her play with the toy." Even though Johnny had it first, I'm certain that his mom is afraid he's gonna cock back and hit my daughter for taking it. She's trying to prevent a lawsuit. Little does she know, my daughter thinks she's in the battle for Middle Earth everyday. He may hit her, but that hand will never work again.
So me and that mom dance back and forth, pretending to be interested in pointless conversation while constantly keeping an eye on our kid who we hope won't provoke, attack or kill the other.
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