Man dudes, NaBloPoMo kicked my trash this year.
So in turn, I’m going to discuss kids kicking other kids trash.
It’s inevitable that when you put a bunch of kids under 6 together there will always be someone crying. Such was the case tonight at a neighborhood barbecue. Someone was always bawling because someone else took their stick and it was a special stick and because there will never be another stick so special in the history of sticks. Or someone threw dirt. Or someone looked at me funny. Or someone wouldn’t let me go down the slide. Or someone said I was a foofoo poopy head.
The best part is that as parents we can watch from the sidelines and place bets on the playground brawls. Who’s going to stand up for themselves, who will best keep their composure, who’s going to cry first and who’s going straight to issuing a smackdown.
Sometimes despite the best of parental watches, something happens and no one’s around to see it right when it happens. You may see the kid go down, or you may be the first to hear a shrill shriek from a kid who’s been downed, but you’re not exactly sure how they got there.
This is where another superpower of parenthood kicks in.
You are able to deduce what happened from the scene of the crime. If there was a small slide involved and the child wailing from behind the slide is alone, chances are he or she just lost their grip and went bottoms up and got a little freaked out on the way down. However if there is another child nearby and the other child looks guilty, chances are there was a “taking turns” altercation and someone pushed someone else. However, as the parent you can never really place blame, because you didn’t see what happened and asking a three year old what happened is about as reliable as asking a dead goldfish which way is up.
So you kiss boo-boos, teary cheeks and bruised egos. You send them back out on the playground, because crap like this is going to be happening their whole life. Only at some point the playground disappears and your mom isn’t around to kiss it better.
Better learned now than in that awkward smelly teenage phase I say. (Which isn’t to say a hard playing three year old can’t work up a good stink. Whoo.)
Bye NaBloPoMo. I won’t really miss you. Sorry.