We were at a playground across town over the weekend, and Charlotte found herself in a conflict with a pair of similarly-sized moppets (they had climbed up the spiral slide and set up camp in the middle while Charlotte -- quite understandably -- wanted to slide down it). Charlotte was tenacious but diplomatic in her entreaties to the other children to please make way, being that slides are, after all, meant for sliding down -- not for climbing up. Not only wouldn't they heed her request, they started getting hostile. This is the point where I got mad. Meanwhile, their fat-assed and ineffectual father sat from the side-lines, limply droning out feeble admonitions that were clearly falling on deaf ears. I felt my jaws clench and my brow furrow. Little voices started to get raised and tensions escalated until someone grabbed or pushed Charlotte, and Peggy had to intervene (before I could get in there). The same two kids continued being obstinate little shits to other kids on the playground, while their corpulent pus-bag of a parent sat contemplating his navel on a neighboring bench.
Let's face it, I'm a nervous dad. I'm not ashamed of it. Hell, I'm proud of it. I fully expect to be the type of father who greets my daughter's future suitors at the front door with a cocked and loaded shotgun. But I'm not waiting `til she's an adolescent to start being protective. To borrow a line from W. Bruce Cameron, "if you make her cry, I'll make you cry!" I apply this rule to the playground as well. Interact with my children in an untoward or aggressive manner -- let alone lay a finger on them -- and I'll be fully inclined to make you swallow your own teeth. I doubt I'm the only parent who feels this way.
Extreme retribution of this sort, however, is unsurprisingly frowned upon. Even though nothing on this earth would give me greater pleasure and satisfaction than pistol-whipping the snot-nosed, bowl-headed spermatozoa who upset my little girl, these things just simply aren't done. Moreover, things learned on the playground play out in later life -- down the road a piece, Charlotte will encounter people who will impede her progress, and she'll have to learn how to deal with those situations. Having her father step in and beat the snots out of her adversaries doesn't really teach her anything (other than that her father probably needs to chill the hell out).
About five minutes after this incident, Charlotte was happily climbing up and down the monkey bars and had completely put the altercation out of her little mind, but I was still mad, shooting hateful, baiting glares at the oblivious father, audibly growling (giving my wife a bit of pause) and invariably setting a terrible example. Now, granted -- I make no bones about not enjoying the playground. I find it stressful as hell. Couple that with the frustration and depression of not having a job these days, and you can pretty much guarantee that I'm going to be in a bad mood if you encounter me in the playground. Also, kids are kids. They're not always going to be little angels. But my needlessly violent flights of fantasy notwithstanding, if I can at least make the effort and try to teach my children to be courteous, polite and considerate when they're at the playground, so can Mr. Pus-bag with his hateful offspring. It's a matter of respect.
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