8/14/13 - "Playground Bullies"
Blogger's Note: Wow. So much is going on right now. One thing I don't expect to hear anytime soon is "Hey, get a life...", because one thing that I'm definitely not short of right now is life - complete with all its exciting twists and turns and frustrations and small victories and choices and big choices and children and loved ones. The irony is that the more blog material my life choices create, the less time I actually have to write them. And that's ok, because I'm not ready to reveal some of these choices yet. And, besides, they're not things that would be particularly interesting or noteworthy to anybody but me.
So, this week, I'm going to pull one out of my mental library. This post I've had brewing for some time now, and it makes a good filler considering the time constraints I'm currently working under. Let's get to it...
Roman has a flag fetish.
I don't think I've mentioned that on here yet.
Now this all happened back when Roman still wasn't talking; he was still wearing diapers; and, he was still walking that swaying, uncertain way that toddlers tend to when they're still new to the whole biped concept. We had just left the store where he had screamed for one of those little, hand-held American flags that he likes to carry and wave. They're a steal at 99 cents and worth every penny. Because they double as a symbol of red-white-and-blue patriotism and as a Roman-screaming suppression device. His Polish grandparents sent him a little Polish flag, too. So, he can express his dual heritage in each hand; and, at the same time, fulfill his flag fetish fondness (excuse the alliteration, please).
When we arrived at the main playground at Noble Park, Roman handed me his flags and took off as fast as his little legs could carry him. He wound up the ramp, unaware of anything besides staying upright in "toddler heaven." I attempted to keep an eye on him by running along-side from the ground.
Standing with an expression of sour dissatisfaction, a young boy that must have been about 7 or 8 was guarding the path with a dirty face and unkempt hair. Roman hardly noticed him as he began to run past Timmy Troublemaker. He had his sights on the slide ahead.
Timmy pushed Roman as he ran past. Not too hard. (Not this time.) Roman hardly noticed. He managed to stay on his feet and continue on past. Timmy dwarfed Roman at least four times over. To see a child of that size difference so much as touch my son sent a jolt of anxiety through me that made rational thought difficult. If I had it to do over, I would have said something right then. I would probably say something like "hey! be careful!" combined with some stone-cold eye contact that would clearly say, 'touch him again you little son-of-a-bitch and I'll fucking kill you.' Unfortunately though, I said nothing. I didn't think of this at the time. Instead, I thought to myself, 'I've got my eye on you, kid.'
A few minutes passed, and I had forgotten about Timmy Troublemaker. Roman played and laughed and tumbled and waved. I admit my thoughts were straying a bit, and I was only half-aware that Roman was once-again approaching the turn in the ramp that was being guarded by the little jerk.
Absolutely unaware that our planet contained people like Timmy, Roman hadn't even noticed that he was about to dive head-first into a baptism of cruelty. Timmy shoved Roman down... my son's feet came out from under him so much that he caught air and landed flat on his back.. ..and hard.
After a handful of eternal seconds, Roman caught his breath and cried.
We know our children. We know their different cries. They come at different volumes, in different colors, with different breaths. Some say I'm hungry; some say I fell down; some say I want that toy; some say I'm tired. We know when to ignore them or when to admonish them or when to come to their aid. And this cry was none of those.
Now, there was that breathless part of his cry that said clearly and precisely, "Daddy, I'm hurt. Daddy, I'm seriously hurt. Daddy, I'm not sure exactly how bad, but I need you here right now." That part of his cry I could deal with. I've heard that one before. And as much as I hate that one, I know that panicking is a really bad idea. I've learned that much.
But there was another part to his cry. One that just said, "WHY???" Why would someone do such as thing? How could someone try to hurt someone else like that? Did I do something wrong? I suppose life lessons never come when we want them to, but we certainly hadn't come to the park that morning with a study of cruelty in mind. And then I saw his tears. Not just wet toddler eyes (which would've been enough), but the streams of fear and pain that cut down baby cheeks and dripped salty confusion onto playground metal.
The fabrics of my self-control ripped apart at every stitch. If we lived in a world where Duane was an omnipotent being capable of anything with just a thought, then here's what would've happened:
First, that midget from Twin Peaks would've stepped from behind a park bench and said in that backwards-way of talking that he has, "Let's Rock!" Then, Guns-n-Roses would start playing "Get in the Ring" as I would've ripped off my shirt to reveal a giant, red-and-yellow "S" under my shirt. I'd grab the little asshole by his ankle and fly five thousand feet into the air and drop him. (Eventually, I'd fly down and save him in the nick of time, because superheroes don't kill -- but he'd be scared as hell by then) and then Roman and I would jump on Falcor and pump our victorious fists in the air as the pink, flying dog-like creature laughed heartily and...
Whoops, I think I got off on a tangent.. where were we?
Oh yeah, what actually happened....
When I yelled "HEY!!!!!!!!" at Timmy Troublemaker, it came out with a rather impressive level of bass. The entire playground turned to see what was going on. "WHERE'S YOUR MOTHER??? WHERE'S YOUR MOTHER??? WHERE'S YOUR MOTHER???" I directed at Timmy. It was all I could say as I quickly rounded the corner to climb the ramp and come to Roman's aid. Timmy was now lying on the metal ramp with his hands defensively waving. He was frozen in terror. Funny, how bullies fold so easily at the first sign of trouble. Our eyes were locked. His were frozen in terror; mine in anger.
Now, keep in mind, I still have in my hand this little American flag that I was unintentionally waving. I must have looked absolutely insane. I was vaguely aware of someone approaching from behind. "I'm sorry, oh, I'm so sorry. Oh, Billy, what have you done??"
I turned around to see an elderly lady climbing the ramp behind me. For a brief moment, I saw myself. Wild-eyed and furious and waving this little flag in my fist like a maniac. I began to come to my senses. I was beginning to calm down; I was beginning to realize that even though Timmy (or Billy it would seem was his name) was four times Roman's size, he was still just a kid, also.
But, then enter Timmy's mother...
This crazy-haired lady wearing a black, heavy-metal tee shirt and smelling like an ash tray starts yelling at me. "I DON'T CARE WHAT BILLY DID! AIN'T NOBODY GONNA YELL AT BILLY LIKE THAT!"
"Billy" suddenly starts crying. It was the most fake sound I'd ever heard in my life. This little brat suddenly starts yelling for mommy's intervention. And "mommy" was buying it.
I, of course, never had any intention of actually doing anything to "Billy". I was on my way to get Roman. I picked up my toddler and saw up close the size difference between he and "Billy." I gave the little jerk one last "today's your lucky day" look and carried Roman down the ramp. "Billy's" mother was still shouting, his grandmother was still apologizing, and I was carrying my son to the van. Everyone was watching us.
I fastened Roman in his car seat and handed him his flag. I kissed his salty cheek and drove away. I swore I'd never bring him back to that playground (although I have). And I learned the lesson that I'm going to share with you:
Playground bullies? Don't give them an inch... not one fucking inch...
Blogger's Note: Wow. So much is going on right now. One thing I don't expect to hear anytime soon is "Hey, get a life...", because one thing that I'm definitely not short of right now is life - complete with all its exciting twists and turns and frustrations and small victories and choices and big choices and children and loved ones. The irony is that the more blog material my life choices create, the less time I actually have to write them. And that's ok, because I'm not ready to reveal some of these choices yet. And, besides, they're not things that would be particularly interesting or noteworthy to anybody but me. So, this week, I'm going to pull one out of my mental library. This post I've had brewing for some time now, and it makes a good filler considering the time constraints I'm currently working under. Let's get to it...
Roman has a flag fetish.
I don't think I've mentioned that on here yet.
Now this all happened back when Roman still wasn't talking; he was still wearing diapers; and, he was still walking that swaying, uncertain way that toddlers tend to when they're still new to the whole biped concept. We had just left the store where he had screamed for one of those little, hand-held American flags that he likes to carry and wave. They're a steal at 99 cents and worth every penny. Because they double as a symbol of red-white-and-blue patriotism and as a Roman-screaming suppression device. His Polish grandparents sent him a little Polish flag, too. So, he can express his dual heritage in each hand; and, at the same time, fulfill his flag fetish fondness (excuse the alliteration, please).
When we arrived at the main playground at Noble Park, Roman handed me his flags and took off as fast as his little legs could carry him. He wound up the ramp, unaware of anything besides staying upright in "toddler heaven." I attempted to keep an eye on him by running along-side from the ground.
Standing with an expression of sour dissatisfaction, a young boy that must have been about 7 or 8 was guarding the path with a dirty face and unkempt hair. Roman hardly noticed him as he began to run past Timmy Troublemaker. He had his sights on the slide ahead. Timmy pushed Roman as he ran past. Not too hard. (Not this time.) Roman hardly noticed. He managed to stay on his feet and continue on past. Timmy dwarfed Roman at least four times over. To see a child of that size difference so much as touch my son sent a jolt of anxiety through me that made rational thought difficult. If I had it to do over, I would have said something right then. I would probably say something like "hey! be careful!" combined with some stone-cold eye contact that would clearly say, 'touch him again you little son-of-a-bitch and I'll fucking kill you.' Unfortunately though, I said nothing. I didn't think of this at the time. Instead, I thought to myself, 'I've got my eye on you, kid.'
A few minutes passed, and I had forgotten about Timmy Troublemaker. Roman played and laughed and tumbled and waved. I admit my thoughts were straying a bit, and I was only half-aware that Roman was once-again approaching the turn in the ramp that was being guarded by the little jerk.
Absolutely unaware that our planet contained people like Timmy, Roman hadn't even noticed that he was about to dive head-first into a baptism of cruelty. Timmy shoved Roman down... my son's feet came out from under him so much that he caught air and landed flat on his back.. ..and hard.
After a handful of eternal seconds, Roman caught his breath and cried.
We know our children. We know their different cries. They come at different volumes, in different colors, with different breaths. Some say I'm hungry; some say I fell down; some say I want that toy; some say I'm tired. We know when to ignore them or when to admonish them or when to come to their aid. And this cry was none of those.
Now, there was that breathless part of his cry that said clearly and precisely, "Daddy, I'm hurt. Daddy, I'm seriously hurt. Daddy, I'm not sure exactly how bad, but I need you here right now." That part of his cry I could deal with. I've heard that one before. And as much as I hate that one, I know that panicking is a really bad idea. I've learned that much.
But there was another part to his cry. One that just said, "WHY???" Why would someone do such as thing? How could someone try to hurt someone else like that? Did I do something wrong? I suppose life lessons never come when we want them to, but we certainly hadn't come to the park that morning with a study of cruelty in mind. And then I saw his tears. Not just wet toddler eyes (which would've been enough), but the streams of fear and pain that cut down baby cheeks and dripped salty confusion onto playground metal.
The fabrics of my self-control ripped apart at every stitch. If we lived in a world where Duane was an omnipotent being capable of anything with just a thought, then here's what would've happened:
First, that midget from Twin Peaks would've stepped from behind a park bench and said in that backwards-way of talking that he has, "Let's Rock!" Then, Guns-n-Roses would start playing "Get in the Ring" as I would've ripped off my shirt to reveal a giant, red-and-yellow "S" under my shirt. I'd grab the little asshole by his ankle and fly five thousand feet into the air and drop him. (Eventually, I'd fly down and save him in the nick of time, because superheroes don't kill -- but he'd be scared as hell by then) and then Roman and I would jump on Falcor and pump our victorious fists in the air as the pink, flying dog-like creature laughed heartily and...
Whoops, I think I got off on a tangent.. where were we?
Oh yeah, what actually happened....
When I yelled "HEY!!!!!!!!" at Timmy Troublemaker, it came out with a rather impressive level of bass. The entire playground turned to see what was going on. "WHERE'S YOUR MOTHER??? WHERE'S YOUR MOTHER??? WHERE'S YOUR MOTHER???" I directed at Timmy. It was all I could say as I quickly rounded the corner to climb the ramp and come to Roman's aid. Timmy was now lying on the metal ramp with his hands defensively waving. He was frozen in terror. Funny, how bullies fold so easily at the first sign of trouble. Our eyes were locked. His were frozen in terror; mine in anger.
Now, keep in mind, I still have in my hand this little American flag that I was unintentionally waving. I must have looked absolutely insane. I was vaguely aware of someone approaching from behind. "I'm sorry, oh, I'm so sorry. Oh, Billy, what have you done??"
I turned around to see an elderly lady climbing the ramp behind me. For a brief moment, I saw myself. Wild-eyed and furious and waving this little flag in my fist like a maniac. I began to come to my senses. I was beginning to calm down; I was beginning to realize that even though Timmy (or Billy it would seem was his name) was four times Roman's size, he was still just a kid, also.
This crazy-haired lady wearing a black, heavy-metal tee shirt and smelling like an ash tray starts yelling at me. "I DON'T CARE WHAT BILLY DID! AIN'T NOBODY GONNA YELL AT BILLY LIKE THAT!"
"Billy" suddenly starts crying. It was the most fake sound I'd ever heard in my life. This little brat suddenly starts yelling for mommy's intervention. And "mommy" was buying it.
I, of course, never had any intention of actually doing anything to "Billy". I was on my way to get Roman. I picked up my toddler and saw up close the size difference between he and "Billy." I gave the little jerk one last "today's your lucky day" look and carried Roman down the ramp. "Billy's" mother was still shouting, his grandmother was still apologizing, and I was carrying my son to the van. Everyone was watching us.
I fastened Roman in his car seat and handed him his flag. I kissed his salty cheek and drove away. I swore I'd never bring him back to that playground (although I have). And I learned the lesson that I'm going to share with you:
Playground bullies? Don't give them an inch... not one fucking inch...
1 comment:
The exception to the rule is to give an inch (or more) if it's for the sake of momentum between them and the clobber you are about to bestow on them.
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