October, 2008

“Give it one big eye, Dad! And teeth–big teeth! More teeth! Lots more teeth! More sharp teeth, Dad!”

“What happened to your pumpkin? Where’s the face?”

“It was making me nervous.”

This post should end like this:

And then, with a roundhouse kick Sydney-Bristow-style, I drop that sneaky, pompous shithead, and then he starts to cry, and begins to crawl away from me on the cold supermarket floor while muttering his apologies…and an undying oath to always respect little children and their caretakers…

It won’t end like that though, because, of course, I’m peaceful and restrained and realize that there are more pressing issues to be outraged about today than this. But, just quickly . . .

Chris and I were at the supermarket’s cafe, selecting a muffin, and Hot Fireshot was tucked into the baby carrier strapped to my chest. Man in Suit came up next to us, all up in Chris’ personal space, so I moved him over a bit. Moved Chris, not the Man in Suit, which was a mistake–after all, the Man in Suit encroached on Chris’ space, so, really, I should have taken ahold of the Man’s shoulders and moved him over. Then, Man takes the glass muffin case door from my hand and opens it wider to create just enough space to squeeze by me, brushing up against Hot Fireshot’s little back, to grab his muffin first. He might as well have had a thought bubble over his head, reading something like, “I am a Man in a Suit. I am Busy and Important, and this Mother and her Little Brats shall not slow me down.”

Fast-forward a minute later, and he cuts us in line. Squeezed his arm in and tossed his bakery bag onto the counter just before us. Message received:  He is Busy and going Somewhere Important.  We are not.

*And this is where that Sydney-style ass-kicking ought to have gone.