Please Make the Stupid People Shut Up.
Tuesday, February 1st, 2011
One of the most challenging things about parenting for me is that, invariably, I have to deal with people who, in my individual life, I would not in a million years choose to associate with in any way, shape, form or manner whatsoever. As a matter of fact said folks would not so much as be identified on my human radar.
You see homo sapiens in fine form when they are dealing with their kids, especially when their kids are in a group with other people’s kids.
How we deal with ‘challenging circumstances’ that we never saw coming, like when you feel like your kid is has a personal vendetta against you, and so tries to embarrass you by telling the parent of one of his friends that you are having a ‘playdate’ with that s/he “doesn’t eat kind of food, no thanks”, how we deal with ‘other people’s kids’, who, as we deem it, have no broughtupcy, or my personal favorite, how we as parents, deal with those issues that we are again faced with; the same said issues that perhaps we didn’t get over as a kid. After all, just because you stretched out of your uncoordinated limbs and managed to escape the nightmare that you may have experienced in elementary or high school, doesn’t mean that you’re over it.
Regardless of what the retail stores are trying to tell me, it is winter. I live in the northern part of North America – A human refrigerator for most of the year, a freezer for the other few months. So hell, you need to learn to do something with all that white stuff – whether it’s shaved or frozen. There’s a rink on the other side of the road, so I decided that the Guy and I would pick up ice skating. I figured, whether it’s recreational or for that dangerous looking sport that they call ice hockey, what’s the use of being a boy in these parts if you can’t hold your own on the ice? So… ice skating here we come. As it turned out, the ice skating classes that you can sign up for are all full, but so what. I was never one to accept that I couldn’t do something because the most obvious path was under construction.
Now, as a child of the 80s, I donned the white-and -red roller skates with the mismatched florescent bobby socks, complete with matching hair ribbons, and my half-and-half, bikini-cut, panty-looking, acid-wash, denim that was precariously attached to a pouffy, white, cotton fabric, like no other, with matching moves of course. Just call me the Roller Skating Ninja.
Then came the Roller Blade. Not as comfy as the Roller Skate in my opinion, but it was new and my aunt got a pair from one some family that lived in NY, so I of course took a borrows from time to time and got the hang of it.
Conceptually, the Roller Blade and the Ice Skate looked similar to me. I could at least manage to hold my own on the ice, and the Guy, just like I did when I was his age, will practice and practice, (i.e. fall and fall) until he can figure out how to hold his own, I thought. After all, in this activity, more than anything else, balance is key. You can do almost anything if you know how to recover, if not maintain, your balance I mused.
In my desire to just “shoot the breeze and bond” on the rink, I realized a few things, one of which was that his activity ain’t cheap. Helleeeer!
One hundred plus bills later we hit the rink. That was funny in so many ways I can’t even count them.
I fell once, and I’m proud about that, if only because my shins and knee caps are living proof of months and months of learning to skate by any means necessary. A couple of those scrapes resulted from scaling chain linked fences and climbing mango and guava trees -survival of the fittest when you grow up with only boy cousins in Barataria, but I digress.
The state of my knees is always a topic of conversation with guys I meet. They try to non-nonchalantly comment on it, and then I glance over at their silky smooth, hairless gams, and well manicured nails and a customary awkward silence follows. Pretty predictable but always amusing.
Maybe that’s what you get for growing up in the Caribbean back then, or maybe I was just a tomboy, who was never impressed by the fact that I was born a girl [the latter I know for sure]. Either way, I saw roller skating on TV, but I never had any cool roller skating parties to attend, so I learned it the only way I know how – on the everlastingly long, red, concrete, walkway with a pair of matching concrete embankments with an uncanny affinity for my shins, that led to the front door of my grandmother’s house. I think these days employers lump that under ‘The ability to use your available resources wisely’. So, after picking up a similar contraption some 20 years after, dammit yes, I’m proud that I fell just once this time.
Day 3 at the rink, the Guy sees a fellow Grade-mate and, of course, is excited. I cringe a bit after seeing who the kid is – a whiny, know it all who always finds the need to highlight what’s wrong with all the other kids- but relief soon follows as perhaps, I think, this means that I can spend less time on the ice, and more time on the side banks with the other parents. The class that I missed the sign-up date for, was about to start shortly so there was some time for the boys to kick it on the ice before they parted ways.
It’s all going skatingly well. I’m about to leave for the sidelines when I overhear the kid whisper:
“My dad thinks you’re a pretty lousy skater and that you can’t glide well… but I think that you’re doing pretty well… for your 3rd time. This is my 13th time skating”.
.
..
…
….
Because, of course Dad, your kid is Wayne Gretzky. What a nosebleed.
Ohh! It’s YOU who is the idiot Dad, for picking on a kid. That’s where the kid gets it from.
Truth is, I’ve realized that Guy is a whole lot tougher than I will ever be. I suppose part of it can be attributed to going to a public school in a Big City. I’ll just leave it at the fact that Guy handled the situation a whole lot better than I did on the rink. At school the day after, Guy and the kid swapped ice skating war stories, how excited they are to meet up on the rink again, next weekend.
I, however, am dreading seeing the Dad again, because the good Lord alone knows how I was able to hold it together to walk past him on the way out of the rink without clobbering him the first time.
If practice makes better, Guy will be better by the end of Winter.
However, that also means that, when Guy is running things in this world, the Dad will continue to be an even better Idiot, because the habit of practicing doesn’t discriminate between constructive and not-so-constructive behaviours and/ or outcomes.
“Dear God,
Please continue to give me the serenity, strength, and wisdom to deal with other parents.
Amen.”
Freakin’Fabulous.
Lol……….stupidity for dummies. Things must be really bad if a dummy needs help being stupid. I hear you on the parents thing, people need to learn how to build up without breaking down, and if you’re stooping to the level of criticism of a child, in front of another child no less, then you need some help yourself. Good thing the son seems to have a little more sense than his dad……………must have got it from his mom.
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