Jul 15 2009
Parents
The brass band has played its last hymn. The Salvation Army Major - a grandfatherly man wearing wire-rimmed glasses - has finished telling the gathering about God’s plan. All that remains is the food.
From somewhere, I hear a kid screaming.
All the unoccupied picnic tables are on that side of the park. Over I go. There’s the kid. She’s blonde, about four, pink sweater and blue jeans. Running. Still screaming.
Mommy grabs her, picks her up, and carries her like a watermelon. More screaming. The kid sounds like a smoke alarm.
I stop to watch the spectacle. And I know the God who created screaming kids and bad mommies is watching me from Her heavenly throne.
A second woman - the kid’s aunt, maybe - gets Daddy’s attention and nods in my direction. A confrontation appears on the horizon.
“Something wrong?” Daddy takes a couple steps in my direction.
“No,” I say. “I’m sorry. I thought you were part of the entertainment.”
I sense that this is the time to split. Besides - the drinks are getting warm, the hot dogs are getting cold, and God is watching.
“Yeah, well . . . something something . . . ” (I miss the last part.)
Over by the food tables, I can hear the kid, still screaming. Any other kid would have run out of steam by now and collapsed from exhaustion.
All kids have bad days, but something’s wrong here.
You have to go to school and get a license to cut hair, but Cave Man and Cave Woman can have all the kids they want, no parental skills exam required.
