Grandpa (M's dad) came for a visit. Little z was a lot more relaxed and "normal" with him. You see, z has what I call "Manxiety", which means, if you aren't putting out an estrogen vibe, and aren't their wussy dad, she freaks out, especially if you try to pick her up. I actually attribute a lot of this to just the way some people approach her. z is a very exotic looking toddler while m looks more like Gerber baby (we call her Baby Classic). So, annoying strangers seem immediately drawn to her. m has a little Bohemian mind (for now) and is a lot more open to strangers or new experiences. She will let anyone pick her up. But z is a little scientist (for now). She likes to see what's going on, first. She asks “Who are all of these fucking people?” Then, maybe by the end of the day, she comes around.
Where I come from, little girls were either called “fast” or “shy”. Shy is an obvious description for any child that doesn’t want a perfect stranger to pick them up and swing them around the room yelling: “Hi! I’m yer uncle Gus! I use to change your diapers and I just got out of jail!” Of course a kid is going to slink away from that. “Fast” kids were those take charge, back-talking smart-asses. Instead of assailed as brats, they were admired for having independent minds and rapier wit. Most likely, when no one was around, these kids would be back handed by their parents for such insolence but in front of company, when they say: “Talk to the hand!” It’s considered cute.
Teaching manners to the Bart Simpson generation is going to be tough. I'm constantly in the Mission District neighborhood in San Francisco. Parts of the Mission have some of the most disgusting sites I have ever seen in my life. Once, I saw a woman, who I thought was putting on makeup. Turns out she was shooting up heroin into her eyebrows! I’ve seen daily human turds on the sidewalk, crack smokers, hobos, tramps, gypsies and thieves. Worst of all, there’s this fruit stand right on the corner of 16th and Mission where all of these people hang out. When it rains. The sidewalk smells like the floor of a YMCA men’s room. As cars drive by, on rainy days, they do their little puddle splash thing and I cant help but wonder; “Why don’t they take that fruit inside and away from the constant spray of piss, shit and used needles flying into the apples like pin cushions? One time, I was walking past that stand, and this dealer/addict turns his head right when I’m passing him and accidently hawks a luggie right onto the side of my head! Instead of looking for a flame thrower to kill him and then burn my face off, I remained calm until I could find one of those showers like they have in nuclear plants that blast your skin off. The addict guy says: “Sorry” and moves on to his life of depravity. Years Later, after many STD test, I was in the same neighborhood. These kids inside a fenced in playground call out to me. I listen and they say: “The ball!” After checking my pants to make sure my testicles hadn’t slipped out, I notice their red ball was lodged under a car. I picked it up and threw it over the fence to them. And what happened? Nothing! No thank you! I could have pulled an Eddie Haskell* and took it with me but nooo, I have to be Mr. nice adult! But those little brats can’t say thanks? On numerous occasions kids ask me for directions, and when I help them they never say thank you. What the fuck? Like I don’t have better things to do. At least the Drug addict said sorry! C’mon, what are parents teaching these kids? (He said feeling old and shaking his fist at those darn kids today).
Dear kids: The world doesn’t work for you. Two simple words: THANK YOU. How hard is that?
Perhaps I ask too much. I mean, after our girls cause all of my grey hairs to fall out, some kind of hernia/ulcer operation and 5 years spent in prison after a boyfriend tries to get to first base with them. Do I really expect them to go: “Oh Papa. Thank you for your hard work and selling your kidneys so that I could go to Stanford and become a Nuclear Robot Technician.”? They aren’t going to say that. Not even if it was: “Hey! Asshole! I won Porn Star of the year award. Thank God for all of that coke I bought with your kidney money.”
I guess that is sort of a thank you for my future hard work. I’ll take what I can get.
That’s it,
EM
* From Leave it to Beaver.
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