“I want that! But, I want it! Mommy! No! Stop! Get it! Don’t touch me, no! NO! I want the toy!”
Words weren’t working anymore, and the child I was looking at in Raley’s did something I did not see coming-
He gargled his throat as much as he could, hauked up a good 3 ounces of spit, and fired off one of the gnarliest loogies right into his mother’s face.
I couldn’t stop laughing, I felt like a 9-year-old boy hearing the word ‘boner’ for the first time. The mom then picked him up out of the cart, and walked off with him.
He didn’t get what he wanted, and threw a fit about it.
As he was drug away, kicking and screaming, he managed to get out one phrase,
“I’m running away.”
Seriously, I can’t get over how green that spit was; the sheer color and texture of it alone made his mom look like she said, “I don’t know” on a Nickelodeon TV show.
I never pulled the “I’m running away” card, but I had friends who stored it as ammo in order to get what they wanted. They had great reasons for wanting to get away from their parents, such as
- Mom wouldn’t let them watch a rated R movie.
- Doing chores.
- No ice cream for dinner.
- Not doing homework.
I would’ve understood the idea of seperating from the parents if mom and dad were abusive; but, they weren’t. My friends had a roof over their head, food, love, and family.
I would sit there baffled when my friends would convulse on the floor after not getting a new video game or comic.
Granted, kids don’t always like their parents actions. In fact, I now know that as a parent-
- we lie.
- have secrets that kids can’t understand.
- don’t have the best ’allowance’ system.
- are dirty perverts behind closed doors.
- and sometimes take things for granted.
Parents are filled with hypocrisy, but it’s with good intentions.
I shovel ice cream into my mouth at 8am, while making my son eat a bowl of ‘vitamin-infused-cardboard-wheat-squares’. He doesn’t like it, but he knows without me he would be on his own; an idea that sounds appealing, but quickly loses its flare once thought about deeply.
I remember that kids get a little too comfortable and therefore forget how to act when they feel they are being treated unfairly.
Parents win battles.
Kids win battles.
Parents lose battles.
Kids lose battles.
But in a secure and effective home, nobody leaves. It’s structured chaos.
Secede- Verb:Withdraw formally from membership in a federal union, an alliance, or a political or religious organization.
Congrats to those states collecting signatures. That is one helluva loogie you are leaving on Lady Liberty.
The past few days have made me feel like I’m watching an upset, sobbing sibling that’s in time-out for the next 4 years; and instead of sucking it up, you are peeing on the rug and kicking the dog.
“Stop calling your step-father a socialist, honey!”
“Alabama-Alaska-Arizona-Arkansas-California-(..all states named). You listen to me, goddamnit!”
[You know shit is getting real when your mom uses all 50 of your states names]
‘I don’t have to listen to him, he’s not my real dad! I wanna stay with Uncle Canada!’
Pouting and a feeling of defeat is understandable. However, I’m losing more and more respect for people who can’t let something go.
The world will still turn.
The sun will still rise.
“But, Steve! I didn’t choose this president!”
We don’t choose our parents either.
I made an argument that watching the states attempt to secede in bitterness is like watching two sibling children fighting in the backseat of a car-
“Mom! Barry spit on me, and then raised the deficit by 16 trillion dollars!”
“Oh, Stop telling! Whatever, you stuck your tongue out at me, and then funded a trillion dollar war that nobody wanted!”
“He rubbed my Baby Britney doll on his naughty knob and then socialized health-care!”
“She won’t let me play my 3DS and then extended the Bush Tax cuts!”
I’ll pull this fucking car over.
Lady Liberty is driving while two sets of idealistic-brats argue in the back, and I’m at a loss of where I’d be in the station wagon.
Most likely I’d be the hitchhiker off to the side of the road, that when you pull up to offer me a ride, politely smiles, nods and just says,
“I’m good. I’d rather blow a 60-year-old trucker than share a car with you.”