Can I Have Snack?
It’s a bit early, but here is a sample from a book I’m still writing. I’m aiming for having it done for the summer, but it’s like pulling teeth. Anyway, this part is free. So, hey, free part of a book.
Typos have been left intentionally to annoy the anal retentive.
Smooches,
Dave
The inspirational story of a squirrel living with diabetes.
First, I have to pick up the girl. She’s at this little pre-school and every day at 1 PM, me and the other parents wait outside, in a circular brick courtyard, for them to finish on the playground. To me, this is the hardest part of parenting, trying to ignore the other parents.
Just because our kids play with each other doesn’t mean I have to like you. No one wants to have a conversation with a complete stranger. Besides old people . And serial killers. Old people just love to tell someone, anyone about their complete medical history of ailments. Sitting next to an elderly person on a packed subway train is torture. They will tell you in detail about their broken ass and how it hasn’t been the same since the great bowel movement of ’86.
Since none of these people are elderly, I’m just going to assume that any of them who wants to talk to me is a serial killer. Safety first, people.
I do everything I can to minimize the chance that someone will get the wrong idea that I want to talk to them. I stand at least three meters away from other parents. I’m not sure, exactly, how far a meter is, but using the metric system makes me sound more sophisticated. I also like to stare at the ground, but then I realize that just makes me look psychotic. That’s when I whip out the phone. God bless modern technology. I don’t know how the Pilgrims avoided other people before cell phones.
After about five of the most agonizing minutes the kids come walking over, single-file, from the playground. It’s at that moment I realize that it is impossible for my children to ever get lost.
“HI DADDY! DADDY! GUESS WHAT I DID TODAY?”
Why do my kids insist on still thinking that I’m Helen Keller? Every conversation has to be shouted at me. Doesn’t matter if she’s across a parking lot or sitting next to me. Everything is done at maximum volume.
I make my way through the other parents to get the girl, and escape another day of having to make meaningless chit-chat with a complete stranger. Or so I thought.
Just as I’m about to get into the car I hear the girl behind us ask her dad if she can come over to our house to play.
I don’t know where she got the idea she was invited over to our house. Wait, I know exactly how. It’s my overlay social kids. I have no idea where they got it from. I just spent the last fifteen minutes doing everything in my power to avoid eye contact, and she’s inviting the preschool to a crochet party and a sleep over.
“Can you ask him, Daddy? Can you? Can you?”
The whole time I’m thinking, “Shut up! If that kid doesn’t shut up, I’m going to choke her out.”
I would choke her out, but her dad could separate my head from my body. Actually, I think he has some experience in that.
I turn my head slightly so I can get a look out of the corner of my eye at which parent is behind me, and I can’t get into the car fast enough. I think I may started running.
Walking behind me is a little four-year-old girl and her father. Who looks like he just climbed out of the foxhole. He’s a retired Marine who I’m pretty sure has killed people. He is about my height (6’3”) and a similar build, with a jaw that looks like it could take a punch and the buzz cut. He drives this giant shit-kicking truck and wears shirts that say things like, “I kill people.” This is the type of guy you want protecting your country, or to kill someone. Not necessarily coming over the house for a play date.
When I see this guy I always get a visual in my head of him just running around the desert with a machete, yelling, “OORAH” and choking terrorists with his bare hands.
I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear it, and talk loudly so the girl doesn’t become aware.
It’s at this point I realize there is a God, and he loves me. Somehow my daughter didn’t hear any of this conversation, which was my first concern. Because if she did, the situation could have easily gotten out of hand.
“CAN SHE? DADDY?! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!”
Then I would have said something like, “Well … we’ll see. We have a lot of … things to do today.”
However, you have to be more clever than the kids.
“What about this weekend, Daddy. We’re not doing anything this weekend.”
See, not so dumb. She knows that Daddy doesn’t have a job and the only think on his schedule is the delicate loads on Friday.
“You’re sick.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes you are. See, I can feel you’re hot.”
“You’re just making that up.”
I would then try to come up with some other excuse. She would have then logically argued every other possible scenario until I was just forced to say no, which would have ended in screaming the entire way home, and me fighting the urge to push her out of a moving vehicle.
But, somehow, she never heard any of it. The only explanation I have for avoiding this disaster is that Jesus came down, and stopped those girls words from ever reaching my daughter’s ears.
The last thing I want to do is be sitting at my kitchen table as he times me field-stripping his machine gun.
“COME ON YOU CANDY ASS! MY GRANDMOTHER CAN PUT THAT M-16 TOGETHER FASTER THAN YOU AND SHE’S DEAD!”
Of course, I not sure this guy was in the military. I’ve never actually heard him say he was in the military, and I’m sure as hell not asking him. For all I know, he could be just like me. Another unemployed dad shuffling his kids back and forth all day.
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Tags: books, can I have snack
