Two thousand seven marks the twentieth year we have lived in our house. It is a very nice house in a very nice suburban neighborhood, and my son would like nothing more than to work out a payment plan so Husband and I could quietly move out/pass on and allow him to assume ownership for the rest of his days. Daughter, on the other hand, has not missed an opportunity in the past 20 years to remind me that any future need she may have for therapy is a direct result of moving her to this chickenheadwasteland. Brooklyn rocks, this place sucks, thanks for sharing.
The news reports keep saying the housing market has gone soft, so I’m always checking on the value of the houses in our neighborhood, which is how I happened to notice this one particular realtor’s flier. It had his picture in the corner, and I recognized him as a local parent who years and years ago used to show up at my son’s Little League games. He had kids, but not on any of the teams, which made his being there peculiar to begin with. But then he used to call out inappropriate things to the players like, “That pitch stunk! What are you swinging at?” or he’d walk over to the coach and start whispering to him. Nobody paid much attention because there is so much insanity at these games that nothing really stands out, and I don’t want to appear insensitive to people’s issues, so for the sake of this entry let’s just refer to him as Syko Dad.
At the end of one of the games when Son was in fifth grade (the year he was chosen MVP), I was waiting for him in the car when I looked up and noticed he was having some kind of verbal exchange with Syko Dad over by the dugout. Son was standing calmly, leaning on his bat, and Syko Dad was getting more and more agitated as they talked. Oh, this can’t be good, I thought, and was about to open the door when Son walked to the car and got in.
“What was that about?” I asked, concerned.
“He was telling me I used to be such a great player, but now I’m missing easy plays and I should just give up because I’ve lost my stuff and I’m an embarrassment to the team.”
“OMIGOD! That is so terrible! What did you say?”
“I just told him he’s an asshole. Then he told me I was full of shit and I said, “No, I’m not because my mother says you’re an asshole, too.”
Which put me in a tough spot because on the one hand I don’t think kids should ever be disrespectful to adults, but on the other hand they shouldn’t let themselves be verbally abused either. Plus I never tire of being quoted accurately, so I let it go.
It does give me a secret smile, though, that my kids have always fought their own battles. When we first moved to this chickenheadwasteland, Daughter was in first grade and being miserably persecuted by the leader of the Mean Girls pack. I asked her one day when I picked her up after school if she wanted me to have a talk with the girl’s mother, but she said she would take care of it. She then walked over to the woman, introduced herself, and I could see them chatting.
As we walked home, I asked her how it went. She said, “I told Clarissa’s mom that her daughter is very mean to me, and I’m new in class and she’s making it hard for me to make friends with the other girls because they all listen to Clarissa.”
I beamed with pride as I asked if she thought this would solve the problem.
“Well, she told me that if Clarissa is being mean to me, she must have a very good reason because Clarissa is a nice girl, so I should look inside myself to see what I’m doing to make Clarissa not like me.”
As I silently struggled with my emotions, my daughter looked up and gave me a philosophical smile. “At least now I know why Clarissa is the way she is.”
Twenty years later, those two moments alone are worth more than this whole house.