My Morning with a Dexter

Whew, it's the end of the weekend. Looking back at the last 2 posts, I see this undercurrent trend of 'bitter'. Gross. So for now, no more "Anne Coulter is an unintelligent but dangerous bitch" (that's for the search engines), no more depressing references to news on the sad state of our Nation. I don't want to be bitter. I want to be (relatively) carefree, happy, and funny. To that end, I put forth this recap of my Sunday morning, about which I was (naturally) originally pissed off and resentful about.

A friend texted me last night asking if she might be able to bribe me to babysit her son this morning while she interviewed a potential caretaker for him and his 6 month old sister - she just started a full-time job somewhat suddenly. I didn't want to get up early and drive out on a Sunday and there was no way she could repay me for this favor, but her husband is away working and she needs all the help she can get at this point as a virtual single mother of 2, so I agreed.

I spent the morning in the charge of a very personable 2.2 year old who brought me back down from the lofty heights of my Tower of (Abstract) Critical Thinking. We sat in the park while he had his snacks (well he actually ate only the HoneyBee Wheat Pretzels - completely ignoring the strawberries and 'gorp' - but I let it slide). It's funny, I expected him to be all active and kinetic, running around, climbing on things and dashing away from me, but he wasn't. He was still of body but not of mind. To put it mildly, he was in a 'inquisitive' mode.

He kept asking me "What's that man/woman/boy/girl/guy doing?" My typical response was "He's climbing a tree" or "He's riding a bike, you can see that". I think the little man was just happy to have some undivided attention showered on him and he took full advantage by asking me about anything that entered his field of vision, however obvious it may be.

"What's that boy on the bike doing?", he croaked.

"He's riding a bike," I replied half laughing, half annoyed.

"Do trees have blood?" he asked a short while later. [This was after we covered the fact that only humans and animals have muscles. Trees, I explained, have cellulose-walled cells and xylem and phloem for fluid transport. I furthermore likened "blood" in humans to the sap in trees...I know, riight? Snaps to me.]

"No it's more like juice, in trees," I answered, not really wanting to go into the whole sap thing.

Later when we were sitting near a concrete path (finishing the ample supply of HoneyBee Pretzels) he noticed an older guy nearby who was looking after a very adventurous, wide-eyed, little girl that was "driving" around on a plastic car. This gentleman looked a bit rough. Like Tony Soprano rough: leather jacket (suit jacket, that is), nylon track pants, running shoes, and sunglasses that were (IMO) a bit inappropriate for a children's playground but whatever, I have a half-assed mohawk.

"Who's that guy?", my wee companion asked.

"I don't know. He's just a guy," I shot back. "You're weird". I was getting brutally honest, but mainly because the dude my little pal was referring to was standing right in front of us and I'm not used to snarking about people so openly. Now understand, Mister Mobster can obviously hear us yet makes no facial expression to indicate this nor does he even turn his head to acknowledge that my little friend has made such a funny inquiry. In other words, he's a total iceman bastard - (unless he's a non English-speaking foreigner, I quickly counter in my conscience) - and I know he understand English because earlier I heard him speaking in English to the little girl he was looking after.

Dex picks up on the guy's shitty attitude and pushes the conversation.

"Is he mad?", he asks.

Awkward pause. "Um...Heh-heh, I hope not", I say a little too loud, repyling more to the guy than to my little compadre. You'd think at this point, the dude might crack a fucking smile or even give me one of those in-the-know sympathetic looks that parents/uncles give to each other when they cross paths, but no. Not Sammy the "Playground Bull" Grovano, he's a toughguy.

"Is he cute?!" The question echoes through the playground as the boy looks at me with a wry smile on his face, looking up from his pretzel stick. Now the guy's head snaps to us and he (finally) begins to passively participate in the conversation. I suddenly wish I or Mister Mobster were far, far away from this park.

"Well, um.. Ha.ha..Er..Well, I don't know, but it's very nice of you to think so and ask," is what spills out of my mouth. At this point Mr. Toughguy finds his voice.

"How old is he?" toughguy asks.

"Mmm, he's like 2," I answer. Thankful that he's cool, waiting for his followup comment that relieves some of the awkward tension of my young, male companion having basically pulled a 'hot-or-not?' within earshot.

Silence. Sound of birds chirping and me waiting. He walks away, moving on. We've been totally dissed.

I wish I had replied, "No Dexter, he's a fucking dog. And not the good kind."
But that would have been bitter now, wouldn't it?