Turning Shit into Gold since 2006
I am not a parent so technically I have no right to slam those that are doing their best to rear decent, compassionate, and well-behaved children, but there are red flags that expose those who have given up and left their children in charge to run the lives of the adults who created them. These daft offspring deserve to be knocked off of their delusional pedestals but when the parent is as weak as a leak in a milk jug they usual rise to the ranks of captain, ruling the roost with sticky juice box hands.
It still amazes me when I walk into the grocery store and grab a cart that is covered in stickers of jovial broccoli or oranges in cowboy hats. My initial gripe is with the establishment. Why in the hell is a publicly traded company handing out complementary stickers to toddlers who have zero concept of the value of property? My second gripe is with the adult who is steering the thoughtlessly decorated cart. If you are allowing your child to vandalize four-wheeled public property I am sure you also allow them to vandalize your vehicle. We have all seen them. The 30k to 60k cars on the road that have the back windows tinted in cartoon stickers. If you happen to catch a glimpse of the parent(s) in the front seat they typically look more like hostages than authoritative figures. Once I walked past a car in the parking lot of HEB that had both backseat windows completely plastered in Pokemon characters. Most of the time you can only see the white backside of the sticker but this kid had taken the time to put them on the outside of the window for all to enjoy. The steering wheel looked like it had spent the better part of the 90s at a rave. The rainbow colored helm shimmered with glitter in the afternoon sun as I passed. Maybe my agitation over this issue is mine and mine alone. Was I being too judgmental? Was I putting too much energy into my personal disdain for these parents and their bossy children? All of these heavy questions would be answered one weekend when I went to help a friend retrieve a couch from a Craigslist seller.
When I hear ‘Craigslist’ I think bed bugs, murder, and small talk, so I was skeptical of the couch that my friend had purchased from a complete stranger. We pulled up at the residence at the agreed upon time. When I stepped out of the truck I came face to face with a hedgehog wearing a train conductor hat aggressively stuck to the mailbox. My heart sunk. As we winded the weed lined walk way and approached the front door there was more evidence of a child in charge. Bloated and peeling Winnie the Pooh, super heroes flying towards decapitated Barbie Doll heads, and Transformers tromping through a field of scratch-and-sniff sunflowers obscured the view from the door. Just the most obnoxious images greeting all who dared to enter. We rung the door bell and waited for an answer.
Tiny thumps trailed the lumbering mother as she made her way to the ringing door. The woman lukewarmly greeted us in her mid-day sweat pants and an oversized ACME toons t-shirt. She stepped out of the way to let us into her home when suddenly a shouting, naked chid rounded the corner and haphazardly headed toward us. “Indigo. Go back into the living room, you’re naked.” She spoke in a tone that would have failed in spooking a deer from a corn feeder. Surprisingly he turned around and marched back from where he came, but not before he poked his cherry colored tongue out at us as he rounded the corner. In any other situation I would have assumed that the kid was pre or post bath but because of the outrageous placement of the various stickers from the sidewalk to the front door there was a very high probability that this kid was the leader of the pack.
Once the kid was meekly dismissed the woman took us into a room at the front of the house that contained a couch, a rack of dry cleaning, some nice shoes, and other personal effects. She explained to us that these belongings were treasures from her long gone single life. Now that she was mother to Indigo and with another on the way it was time to get rid of these nice things that would surely be ruined by her unruly children. She stood at the door with her pint sized tyrant beside her. Wrapped in a blanket, the little boy again stuck his tongue out at us as his mother watched what little control she had over her household drive away. The room would probably become a Crayola collaged haven for the wild child and it was only a matter of time before that front widow was covered in stickers, a sign to all who entered that this tot was calling the shots.