Let’s say earlier in the week you had a talk with your 13 year old daughter about the importance of showing up, specifically to her 10 year old brother’s baseball play-off game over the weekend and she says that yes, she’ll think about it, but no promises, and then as the game is about to start and you’re sitting at the top of the bleachers wishing she’d come by, there she is, walking in and waving and isn’t it great that the lesson that you taught her and/or nagged at her about took? And as you’re patting yourself on the back for being such an amazing mother and an inspiration to the masses (or something along those lines) you notice that she is not alone,but has two friends in tow and for reasons that you cannot possibly understand, those friends are boys.
Oh, you recognize the boys alright, they’re in the same karate class as she is, but that doesn’t make them not boys.
They take their seats on the lower bleachers, away from your perch.
Hypothetically, of course.
“Hi,” one of them calls over to you. Another one nods in your general direction.
“Unbelievable,” you say to a friend-mom sitting next to you.
She’s sort of laughing at you because she has no heart and is a terrible person. You’ve noticed this about her before and make a mental note to share the news with the team.
You ask her to approach the boys and tell them that they have to leave because this is a private Little League game, with only close family in attendance, but, for reasons previously mentioned, refuses to do it. Reminder: heartless and terrible person.
And then you don’t remember what happens because someone calls the fire department because there’s a smell of gas in the air, and the firemen come and you get involved in a deep discussion with another mom about whether it’s some kind of NYC ordinance that all firemen must be attractive. Like why wouldn’t there be a class action lawsuit by ugly firemen-wannabes about being excluded from the fire department? You score a winning point by observing that if they let unattractive people into the fire department, then there would be absolutely no point in pyromania and in this economy that’s just asking for trouble. Then you ask the mom you’re talking to if she dares you to yell “it’s getting hot in here!” but she just laughs in a completely mirthless way and also moves away a bit, again, mirthlessly.
Your husband shows up at the game and you brief him as to the situation. The situation with the two boys, not the firemen, because you know from past discussions that he has absolutely no insight on the subject. His face registers no alarm, no doubt from all the years of poker that he hasn’t played.
“What are we going to do?” you ask and he sort of shrugs, which is code for “please tell me Marinka what to do for you are the source of wisdom and light in our marriage.”
You, again hypothetically, instruct him to approach the boys and question then first separately and then together, as to what their intentions are towards your daughter, playing them off each other a bit and engaging in what you understand to be commonly referred to as “good cop”/”bad cop” routine in police drama parlance.
“Yeah, I’m not going to do that,” your husband says and settles in to watch your son’s game as though it’s the reason he’s there in the first place.
You wonder how you could have married such a brute. And why you didn’t marry one of those nice firemen who would have turned a big hose on your daughter’s friends and solved many problems.
It’s the end of the school year, which means graduation for my daughter and baseball playoffs for my son. I’m a bit of an emotional wreck. You can tell because I wrote a love song to Little League. Without a melody. Or lyrics. Please bear with me if posting is spotty this week.
One year ago ...
- Boyfriends - 2015