There is a certain crazed energy in a 5 year old that is terrifying and awesome to behold.
There is also a certain vibe you get from a mom that is just burnt out and done with it all.
Its in her stare, her lack of reaction, no matter what that evil little beast does to her that tells the world on a very primal level – “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK!”
The 5 year old, let’s call him Damian. (If you get that, kudos. If you don’t, you are too young and I didn’t write that for you.
Damian has so far run face first into two tables, 1 door, the counter and 3 people.
He is definitely the type of kid who wears a helmet but isn’t on a team. (Are you following this?)
Let’s hope mom left his helmet at home because this kid is not going to have a brain left by noon.
Mom is sitting at a table, cell phone in hand, not texting, just holding it.
There is a glassy eyed stare that they would have called “Shell-shocked” in WWII.
5 year olds can do that to you.
Once again, I am unbelievably grateful that my children are grown.
I don’t have that kind of energy anymore.
Much less the kind of energy that could handle the kind of sugar-fueled, hillybilly inbreeding responsible for Damian’s little one man show.
Mom is still in her chair, as out of it as if she was Michael Jackson an hour after taking his bedtime “Jesus Juice”. (For the record, Propofol is not available as an added shot in your latte at Starbucks…. Nothing? Jeez, Google it, you people are pathetic.)
If I were Damian, at this point, the police would be feeding my mother into the back of a squad car for my murder and taking statements from witnesses. (Odds are, no one would remember seeing anything. Mom puts that kind of fear into people when she gets rolling.)
In lieu of my mother, the cavalry has arrived in the form of a middle aged woman shaped roughly like a bowling ball.
Damian ran head on into her and kind of bounced off.
Before he could get up, she grabbed him by the hood part of his little hoodie and lifted him off the ground.
It was like the human version of a momma cat picking up a kitten by the scruff of the neck.
She carried him across the room and plopped him down in a seat next to his mom, who until this moment, I had not realized how ridiculously you she was. (See also – Children raising children)
Mom looked a little more alert, but was still silent.
Before she went back to the line to get her coffee, she pointed an angry chubby finger at Damian.
“You get out of that chair, I will spank your bottom.”
It was an awesome moment.
It was also one that I hope she didn’t go to jail for.
Sadly we live in this hyper sensitive society that is a pale comparison of what it used to be.
Take a good look at any protest going on and you get a good look at the fascism of the politically correct freedom. (Inverted McCarthy-ism is never pretty to look at. There is a primal schadenfreude that lingers in the back of your head if you think too long about it. Even if you dig it in a sick way for the short term, it wears on you. Like an existential migraine that you just can’t shake.)
But enough of that.
The awkward feeling that was permeating the room has begun to fade, and the world has returned to homeostasis.
Plus, my coffee just arrived, so all is well.