Friday, April 30, 2010

Do Not Make Me Waddle Over There

There is no such thing as the "Perfect Parent". This is a mythical creature that gallops through the forest with unicorns and sits down to tea with hobbits. Unfortunately, at the other end of the spectrum, there are horrific parents. Monsters that walk in the light...but I am not going to talk about either of those. I am here to address and bash the "If I could stop thinking about myself for 3 seconds put together, I might actually have a shot at being a half-way decent parent." (Model year 2008)


These are the idiots who treat their kids (and yours if they coach soccer) as accoutrement to their self-involved lives. Children are not whole entities to them, but rather living breathing extensions of how they define themselves. There is no care given to Billy's easily bruised developing ego, because "Coach Jerk-Face" is too busy wondering how a losing team will make him look. I had an opportunity a while back to see this beast in action, and was stunned that no one (with the exception of guess who) had the gumption to tell this flaming idiot to close his whoppers hole....(picture that "doo-doo, doo-doo, doo-doo" Scooby doo thing)...

The year...2000 (but really, you probably saw this guy last week). The setting: my house which backed up to a playground / soccer field...I was pregnant with my second son, and enjoying a balmy Michigan afternoon. The weather was text book perfect. The door wall was open and the sounds of little kid voices from the soccer field were bouncing around my dining room. I sat in a rocking chair reading (what a motherly scene) something by Diana Gabaldon (run out now and buy the whole series...you will thank me for it).

Soon the soccer game starts. All these little munchkin people running around in their primary colored shirts and shiny shorts. This continues for a while...and I am completely engrossed in my book...a rhino could have given me the finger, and I wouldn't have noticed. Then through the back door of my psyche I hear this voice...you know the kind. It makes the back of your neck tingle unpleasantly (which my sister and I have named "the tinglies"...when the tone in someone's voice irritates you to the point that you consider jacking them).

Anywho, this voice I realize is actually a feet-stomping, arm-waving, screaming me-me whose name is "COACH". This guy could have given Bobby Knight a run for his money...however, the obvious difference being the size and age of the people he was freaking out on. He was going ape-bongo-nutso on children no bigger than garden gnomes. This went on for MANY LONG MINUTES. His voice carried across the field and slammed into me...syllable by syllable. I kept waiting for an outraged parent to walk up and cold-cock him, but nope everyone just sat on their little canvas-bag toted chairs drinking their "poisoned-Kool-Aid". As this continues, a red hot rage begins to make it's way from my feet to the top of my head...actual steam began to bellow out my ears and nostrils.

My husband walks into the room to see me pacing back and forth (with a waddle) hands on hips, and that tell-tale look on my face. He sees said look, and begins to talk me down...this DOES NOT WORK. Finally, when I can stand it no longer, my jaw unhinges and I scream for all the world to hear, "OH, FOR THE LOVE OF CHEESECAKE, SHUT YOUR GAPING CAKE WHOLE". "THEY ARE LITTLE KIDS, NOT THE MANCHESTER UNITED TEAM".

A stunned semi-quiet falls over the field as eyes swing my way. People begin to titter and laugh. The coach's eyes bug out as he focuses on my 5 foot tall penguin shaped body. And then the clapping begins...not Carnegie Hall worthy, but a nice smattering of applause. My husband stands in the other room shaking his head, and I throw my hands up in the universally accepted Italian gesture of "what..what are you lookin' at". Needless to say the game continued, and I needed a bowl of ice cream to calm down.

I recount this story not to put myself up as some sort of paragon of parental/maternal virtue, but simply to say this...If you are screaming your bloody head off in public...where we can all see you, you raving moron...then what, perchance, do you do to your kids in private. Please consider this the next time you decide that these little INDIVIDUALS have shamed you so terribly that your only recourse is to have a verbal aneurism....and to all the parents who just sat in their canvas seats (which I will admit are hard to get out of), next time be the protector that your job description requires of you.

I bid you adieu.

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