Case in point, my son. He is almost 3. He is awesome. Those aren't my words. They're his. He has this ever-present, shit-eating grin.
Take my truck?
I got another, no worries.
Push me down?
Hey dude, I get it! It's the push down game! My turn!
Don't want to play with me in the sand?
Fuck it. Your loss, loser.
My daughter is 4. She is a beautiful, gentle soul who empathizes with everything from homeless dudes asking for money to the spiders that I make her father kill.
She takes everything so seriously.
If you ask her to scoot over, her bottom lip quivers.
Why don't you want to sit by me?
If you take the last cookie?
It's okay. I guess I'll get one next year when Mom bakes.
If you tell her you don't want to be her friend?
Don't do that. Please. It'll take years off her life.
Shit hits this kid hard is what I'm saying.
I've always known these differences between them exist. I see them play out every day.
Now, what you may or may not know about me (depending on what year we met) is that I used to have a bit of what some people might call an "anger issue". I may (or may not) have attended anger management classes. Twice. I may (or may not) have been mandated by the court to do so.
Point being? Before the intervention of professionals, this mom would cut a bitch.
But after motherhood, I've made concerted efforts to "use my words", "visualize the after effects", and above all "breathe before reacting".
I thought I'd done a pretty good job of shielding my two precious little people from the bitch that dwells within me.
That all changed last week.
We were at one of those god-awful play areas in the mall. You know, the ones that have all the climbing structures that must hide some sort of magnetic field that attracts undisciplined and/or contagious kids?
That place.
I had to go to Sephora, so I considered visiting the playspace beforehand a penance. I sit here and watch them put their sweaty little hands where other germy kids have their sweaty little hands and then I get to buy a $38 lip gloss. As Bille Jean would say "Fair is fair."
But this day at the play space was a special sort of awful. There were a group of brothers there with their toddler sister. The oldest boy was about 16. He spent the majority of the time scratching himself. Meanwhile, the girl. Oh, the girl. I know I already sound like a bitch, so I'm just gonna say it.
Dirty. Mean. Feral.
As mentioned, these places are usually full of these kinds of kids, so at first, I didn't even flinch. But then I started noticing a trend. Specifically a trend of her kicking my son in the head. Not hitting him. Walking up to him, sitting down on the ground to get a good angle, then kicking her foot straight at his head. I heard him say "Hey! I don't wike that!" And then "Stop it! I gonna kick you!" And right before he had to get a tetanus shot, I corralled them and we left.
That night at dinner, my son says, "That little girl was mean. She kicked me in da head."
I say, "You're right. She was mean."
He says, "I bet Santa not gonna give her any pwesents. She's a meanie."
At this point, my daughter, who unbeknownst to me, had seen the whole thing at the play space, says "You know, I bet she's mean BECAUSE Santa doesn't give her any presents. I think she must be sad. Maybe WE should give her something, Mama?"
And I think to myself "Who is this kid? How did she wind up with me as her mother? And when her real mother shows up, I'm hiding and keeping her."
But what I say out loud is, "That is a really sweet idea, honey. What would we get her? We don't even know her."
She says, "Well, she's mean. And probably kind of strong. I dunno. Maybe she'd like a bat?"
My son thinks about this for about 8 seconds then adds,
"Yeah, let's get her a bat."
And for a split second I think that my awfulness has skipped a generation!
But then (my right hand to God) my son adds, "And then I hit her in the face with that bat! Meanie."
Blood is thick, man. Real thick.
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