A Halloween Streetcar Named Desire

I love Halloween and I love dressing my Kidlets up.  They are young enough that I can still have all costumes “government issued” a.k.a. “Mom Selected, Purchased, and Inflicted”.

Dressing the kids is a complete snap for me.  I wish I could just as easily find something great for Husband and I wear halloweening with them. 

Or better yet, to wear out to a fantastic Halloween party!

Actually, I came up with a great couple costume once, but sadly, it is not suitable parental attire for trick or treating down Kettleby Road.

Circa 2001, when we were just dating, I talked Husband into going to the Halloween Toronto Streetcar Party as an S & M couple - specifically Dominatrix & Slave.

A Toronto Streetcar Party is basically a pub crawl for about 200 or so people.  You meet at bar #1 where they serve you $2 drinks and get the party primed. 

Then a specific song is played and to cue all the drunkards to leave the bar and board one of the many Toronto Transit Commission streetcars waiting out front. 

The streetcars then become the party until you get to the next stop.  The group leaders pass about bottles of hard liquor and fill the party-supplied plastic yellow shot glasses (which are conveniently strung around your neck along with your Streetcar party entrance pass) so there is no interruption in your party buzz while on the road.

A Streetcar Party usually takes the group to about 4 bars in total over the course of the evening. 

It is survival of the fittest drunks.  Not all make it to the final bar, and the numbers drop off significantly by the end of the evening. 

This can be for many reasons including public pass-outs, couple hook-ups, or failure to recognize the song and depart the bar into a Streetcar (ahem, Husband?).

So I borrowed my friend’s PVC pants - I know, shocking I didn’t have my own - and found my highest pair of matching PVC kick ass boots with 3 inch heels.  I had bought them in Stockholm, Sweden.  Perfect. 

I lucked out and scored a PVC tank top at Halloween store, as well as a dominatrix/batwoman type facemask, and a small whip.

Husband and I were just dating at the time, so he was WAY more likely to do what I asked than he is now. 

But nevertheless, I wasn’t sure if he would be up for it. 

So I put it all on, held the whip high, and sprung the idea to Husband.

He made a face and cringed twice, but, in the end, even he had to agree it was a better that his nerd ideas to go as ‘Carl Sagan’ and ‘Carl Sagan’s wife’ or characters from “Bladerunner”. 

(What is it with men and that movie??)

But, he firmly stated “No ball gag”.

Can you tell?  He was in the know, he’d seen Pulp Fiction.

Awww…well…okay then.

So I dolled him up in a leather vest, studded collar, sex hood, tight bicycle shorts, Doc Marten’s and black eye liner. 

My girlfriend Giselle had a Rottweiler dog named Sheba, who I guessed was about the same weight & neck size as Husband, so I had already asked to borrow her leash. 

We attached it to his spiked collar and he went as my ‘sex slave/pet’.



Getting Ready to go...



It started out as any great Halloween party does…

The gang was all there.



Me, Hawkeye Pierce, Gorgeous Geisha, Russian Spy, & Mad Cow.



Dirty/Horny Priest, Husband Sex Slave, Gorgeous Geisha



Gorgeous Geisha, Me & Hot Lips Houlihan



 We were circulating & making new friends.

And, Husband’s costume was a hit with the Pink Ladies.

We traversed happily from bar to streetcar, and back to bar, all evening, drinking our weight in fruity shots, beers and god knows whatelse. 

I don’t know exactly where we were, or what time it was, but the group was summoned by song to get on the next Streetcar.  I left the bar leading Husband out by his leash and boarded the closest Streetcar, securing many of us seats at the very back.  We all sat down. 

Me & Husband's Leash

As the three minutes of the song were up, the streetcar was filling quickly with the last of the intoxicated party goers.

It was crowded, and I was very tipsy, so like any responsible owner, I tied my sex pet’s leash to the long metal rail running the length of the streetcar so I wouldn’t lose him. 

There. 

Sit. 

Stay.

Good slave.

The leash was quite long and there was a loop at the end of it as a hand hold. This hand loop flopped over the top of the metal bar. 

Well, I guess it looked like part of the actual Streetcar because a couple of women got on and one of them put her hand right through the loop.

We all snickered like 8 year olds, elbowing each other and pointing. 

Husband sat still on his seat, at the end of his leash, looking up at her expectantly. 

And we waited.

Nothing.

When is this chick going to notice?

Please notice!

Please, please notice!

Nothing.

But then, the Streetcar started moving and she tightened her grip.  Her inebriated friend toppled over and slammed into her. 

So she looked up to see if there was another vacant hand grip for her BFF.

It was a brilliant moment. 

The whole back of the streetcar could feel her thinking and see her thought process.

Hey, there are no other hand grips.

Well, how come I have one?

(Please read this last line in a Steve Martin “those aren’t pillows” kind of way...)

Wait, this isn’t a hand grip! 

And with that, her eyes followed from her hand, along the leash, around the metal pole, through the knot, and down the length to Husband’s hooded & collared & enslaved head.

He had a goofy inebriated grin on his face.

His unfocused black rimmed eyes were hopeful and he was already looking right at her.

“Are you my new Master?”

She screamed,

threw off the leash,

lurched back,

and fled up the streetcar,

pulling her friend with her,

by the hair.

The back of the streetcar erupted in fits of laughter.

I defended my man & cried out after her, “It’s okay!  Come back!  He doesn’t usually have a lazy eye, he’s just drunk!  It will go away by morning!”



But, she couldn’t have heard me. 

She didn’t come back to claim her sex slave. 

Can you imagine if he’d worn the ball gag??

Damn, I hate a missed opportunity.

Like I said, unsuitable parental attire for trick or treating down Kettleby Road.  Perhaps, I'll work on a couple's costume for next year.

For information on Streetcar Parties - http://streetcarparty.com/

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.



We're together on this one! Ya know! Ya know!

Last night we took the kids for the dreaded Family photo shoot at the Real Canadian Superstore.  For anyone who hasn’t been through it - you get a twenty minute time slot to get 2 overtired kids, sitting together and smiling perfectly, in at least 2 outfits each, and over 5 different poses. 

And, we got the only slot left – the 6 pm dinner time slot. 

Sure, no problem.  Parents unite.  We can overcome this setup for failure. 

Only, my Kidlet #2 can’t sit up by himself - a time chewing disadvantage.

I have been a delinquent Mommy and have cut short his ‘tummy time’ too often. 

And now, smell the shame…

I have a slow-sitter.  Mommy fail.

Kidlet #2 is now over 7 months old, and according to the pediatricians, he should be sitting all by himself by this age.  The average baby will learn to sit and roll over between 4 and 7 months. 

To avoid Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS) it is recommended that all babies sleep on their backs.  So to strengthen neck, stomach and back muscles in babies, parents are encouraged to place their infants on their tummies for 30 minutes a day.  This ‘tummy time’ also helps them to get ready to push up, roll over, sit up, and stand.

But, I hate ‘tummy time’. 

It stressed me out with Kidlet #1 and hasn’t gotten any better with Kidlet #2. 

For me, this was the first milestone-making Mommy task that was emotionally counterintuitive.  You worry about every little thing with a baby.  The shape of their head.  Is it too flat?  The milk.  Too much?  Too little?  The bath water.  Too hot?  Too cold?  The diaper.  Too wet?  Or can it take one more load?

And then, you are supposed abandon all that instinctual parental conditioning and place your child tummy down with inadequately formed muscles to lift his own head. 

As a new Mommy, there is nothing quite like the first time you flip your precious child on his stomach only to watch him try desperately raise his head and seek out the comfort in he only finds in your smiling face - only to suddenly have his neck give out.  His eyes bulge, he buckles, and inevitably bounces his skull off the floor, bursting into fits of shocked tears.

It’s horrifying.

And, I didn’t realize it, but our play mat has a section with a sewn in squeaky toy. So one time, my sweet Kidlet crashed his head and the toy squealed on like the car horn in that scene from the movie “Little Miss Sunshine” until I removed him. 

So ‘tummy time’ wasn’t going well.

The ever-so-helpful-internet recommends getting down on the floor to baby eye level and using eye contact, praise and toys to incent him to practice lifting his head. 

Well, thanks internet.  That just sets up distractions so your child smashes a nose or chin instead of a forehead. 

Spread the bruising around, I suppose.

The ever-so-helpful-internet also says you can lie down on the floor and put the baby on your chest. 

Husband found out first-hand that this is just an invitation for baby to arch his back, raise his head, and spit up directly in your mouth.  Amusing for me, but he wasn’t so keen.

Needless to say, we stopped using ever-so-helpful-internet and just let our Kidlets develop stomach muscles at a more natural, yet slower pace, by using the exer-saucer, bouncer and high chair, etc.

But apparently, that leads to Mommy shame in the portrait studio as you are questioned “Can’t he sit, yet?” repeatedly.

Clearly, portrait studio employees do not understand that developmental ‘tummy time’ is a front row seat to watch your child helplessly bash his face into his colorful discovery play mat repeatedly - until he can bash no more. 

I believe ‘tummy time’ can lead to one of or both of the following outcomes:

1.    If your child likes it – the repetitive head slamming will undoubtedly come back in his teens to haunt you.  He’ll morph into a heavy metal headbanger.  Black will be his favorite color - a direct result from all the induced blackouts at 4 months old – and forever more, all his t-shirts will have some sort of skull on them.

2.    If your child hates it – it will be the systematic destruction of parent/child trust and lead to teen rebellion.  After repeated ‘tummy time’ sessions, your child will not want to do anything you suggest, ever again.

Think about it.  It wasn’t the joint at the Led Zepplin concert that led to headbanging. 

It was their unsuspecting Mommies.

Weren’t all the mothers in the 50s & 60s told to put their children tummy down to bed & nap?  By 1970, we were inundated by headbangers. 

Then the powers that be told Mommies to put babies on their backsides to bed, and the percentage of headbangers per capita significantly dropped. 

Artists like Rick Astley & Corey Hart thrived.

That was, until ‘tummy time’ was introduced by some Spinal Tap loving pediatrician.

But before any of you rocker Mommies get your Ramones t-shirt in a twist, I want you to know that I have nothing against headbangers. 

·        I used to date them. 

·        They provide the necessary ambience at Casino Rama concerts.

·        I may have even been one, a pathetic one mind you, in the ever-so-surprising mosh pit at a Sugar Ray concert.

Headbangers have their place in this world, like everybody else.

I just don’t want to raise one.

I’ve got my Tiger Mommy sights set on a Nobel prize-winning, Harvard graduating, doctor specialist (or lawyer or such), who enjoys life, marries the perfect girl, has beautiful grandkids for us, buys the house next door, and eternally loves his Mother above all else.

All the preschool & tween love and attention I lavish on my children is intentional and an all-out effort to bond and fuse them to me.  

I see it as a kind of Mommy insurance - so they could not possibly go off plan, get into trouble, flunk school or ever rebel in any way against me when we hit the teen years. 

I figure I have between the age of 0 and 12 to set this in concrete & hormone resistant place.

Kidlet has a lot to accomplish.

There is no time for a detour into the headbanging or the teen rebellion world.

Now, I don’t want you Alpha mothers who have complied with the 30 minutes of tummy time per day to worry too much.

There is still a chance your child won’t be a joint-rolling headbanging teen nightmare.

But, watch for the signs.  The worrisome baby behaviors that evolve from ‘tummy time’ may include, but are not limited to:

• Moshing - This is most commonly witnessed post-sugar-high in bouncy castles. 
• Stage diving - Previously known as toddler couch diving.  Attend any organized playdate and you’ll see the group dynamic in action.
• Crowd surfing - Have you been to the ball pit at IKEA?  Those urine coated balls are a pure Scandinavian adrenaline rush that may send your child fearlessly flying into the toddler masses.  It’s a bad IKEA, and it’s not worth the $1 hot dog and the free Allen key.
• Your kid lines his Fruit rollup with Jello powder, rolls it, and passes it around to his buddies.

If you are seeing any of these behaviors in your child already, this is your red flag, your wake up call.

With just a little more fine and gross motor development, your precious angel will flip you the sign of the devil horns and the Gene Simmons tongue as he crowd surfs out the flap of the bouncy castle in your direction.

You need to stop this before he bites the head off the rubber bat he stole from the Halloween display at Target and/or snorts live ants on the playground like Ozzy Osbourne.

My educated guess is that they don’t let those kids into Harvard no matter how high their MENSA score.

I recommend putting junior immediately in collared shirts, khaki pants, advanced math and classical violin lessons.  Dork him up.  ‘Dork’ is your new Mommy verb.  Go all in.

And, don’t let any mulleted Judas Priest loving teen photographer at the Superstore give you any attitude when your next child won’t sit alone at 7 months old.

I didn’t.

Our photographer pulled out buckets, barrels, large trucks and everything imaginable to prop Kidlet #2 into a stance that wouldn’t emphasize the belly and make him look like baby Buddha. 

Husband took direction well.  He writhed around on the backdrop trying to prop up Kidlet but keep his hands out of lens way. 

It wasn’t pretty, but we came, and we conquered, the family photo shoot.

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

There is a sensitivity thing that some people have. I don't have it.

Husband has just been through dental surgery. 

Something about his gums…  I heard the words ‘scrape’, ‘peel back’, and ‘sew up gum pockets’ and figured I had heard enough to get the gist of the horror.

He went in a couple weeks ago and had this done.  He came home with a puffy puppy dog face and this strange gauze-like packing lining on both sides of his upper gums that he had to wear for about 7 days.

He also had to have 12 needles in the upper jaw and he was awake for sound symphony of the ungodly dental power tools.  

Husband is convinced these were the very same instruments used to kill Braveheart.

He went back in last week to have the packing removed.  His mouth will be sore for another couple weeks until it is fully healed. 

He got the special Tylenols.

My mother-in-law kindly called and wanted to know if I wanted to drive down to pick up and borrow her smaller blender. 

The silence on my end of the phone tipped her off that I was confused.

So she explained that I would need it to be able to make homemade meals of broth, soft meat & veggies for him.  She expects I will want to blend them and serve the warm mush to Husband as he recovers.

I bought him a couple weeks’ worth of frozen Hungryman dinners at Walmart instead. 

They were on sale.

He shares them with the cat.

He eats the mashed potatoes.  She gets the chewier turkey section. 

I think they fight over the brownie.  The cat thinks it's meat.

I know I should feel worse about this.

But, I can't tell you how thrilled I am to have found something the geriatric cat will actually eat.

That, and, as a woman who went through 2 years of daily stirrups spread-ems, countless needles, side-effect inducing pills, and painful corrective surgeries etc. mostly alone - it is hard to feel for Husband at this time.

I’m not unfeeling about what Husband has been through, but clearly, I am too bitter to blend.  And, I took his special Tylenols for my next menstrual cramps.

In the middle of my treatments, I had such deep purple bruising across my full stomach, I eventually I had no other choice but to give myself needles into the bruise itself as there was nowhere left.  And, I was simultaneously shooting needles full of thick oil into my ass, that not only needed to be warmed up, but they took 20-30 seconds to fully discharge, and left welts that ached for weeks.  My ass was like a black diamond run full of moguls that even Steve Podborski wouldn't attempt. 

Meanwhile, Husband got free porn, alone time & like, two dozen Dixie cups.

I realize there should be no comparison.

However, the "Life's Unfair" soapbox is not one Husband should get up on in front of me.  And he knows it.  There are too many creative ways for Wife to bring him back down.

For now, Hungryman meals are our symbolic middle ground.  That is, as long as he shares them with the cat.

And besides, it couldn't have been that bad.  Everyone knows Braveheart was really killed with a vaginal speculum.

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

I don't like black people? I am Mister black people.

It is funny, writing this blog.  In that last post about my son’s run in with the kid with Dwarfism, I was so worried about coming across discriminatory, when really it was just factual.

I think about that kid.  I don’t know how it feels to be different and extra short everywhere you go.  I hope it helps that he has a few years as a kid where everyone is roughly his height.  I can only somewhat emphasize.

I was stared at constantly and felt like the tallest freestanding structure in Hong Kong for over a year.  And, I will never, ever, forget my first day of work in Kowloon.

The University of Waterloo had brilliantly helped me secure a job at a Tool and Die Mould company just outside of Hong Kong.  I was just 19 and had no idea what the hell a Tool and Die Mould company did.  I still don’t.  But, the job came with a plane ticket to Hong Kong so I was emphatically in! 

It’s another story for later, but I got myself from Waterloo to the front door of my new job!  It was going to be FABULOUS.

The door to the office was like one of those old houses where, when you enter, you are immediately in the kitchen with no foyer to greet you. 

I stepped inside, my head grazed the ceiling, and I was directly in all the bustle of the office on a bright Monday morning.  People were everywhere, but it was not clear who my receptionist was going to be.  Surely, they have all been anticipating my arrival.

I smiled at everyone and politely waited there for some time.  My professional perma-grin was starting to give me a face ache and I was sure my look had gone from welcoming to crazy creepy.

Eventually, I called out “hello” a couple times, but nothing. 

It’s not like I wasn’t making any eye contact.  I was locking eyes all over the place. 

They didn’t even try to hide the staring.  It was totally rude. 

There were at least thirty or so mouths hanging open in my direction. 

I should have brought peanuts to feed them. 

Still, no one would approach the frizzy-haired, 6ft., scary, white chick in the front hall.  How I longed for one of those little desk bells to ring.

What now??  I’ve been calling out hello??  Maybe they don’t speak English.

I know! Do it in Cantonese.  Show them they are your people now. 

Bridge the gap.

“LAY-HOW-MA?  LAY-HOW-MA?” I squeaked.

More heads popped up.  They looked confused and started muttering amongst themselves. 

I was sure they were saying ‘Look!  It’s trying to speak to us’.

Clearly, that is not “hello” in Cantonese.

It likely means “I’m a dork, I’m a dork ”. 

So stop it.

Finally, a perfectly groomed Chinese woman approached me.

I expected her to say something like “Haaro, chan I helps you?”  But she through me off completely and said something perfectly English in a strong Australian accent. 

I’m terrible with accents.  I couldn’t make out a word she was saying. 

On top of that, her head didn’t match her body.  And my god, she’s wearing blue contact lenses. It was sensory overload and I just couldn’t compute.  I stood there gaping at her.   

Christy!!!  She’s repeating things to you like you’re an idiot. 

Pull it together!!! 

I still had no idea what she had said to me, but knew it was time for me to give some kind of a response.  I gave a head nod.  She seemed relieved to have made alien contact and led me down a skinny hall towards a bright red door.

It was clearly the head honchos door and the sharp red color made me feel like I was about to go through the gate to Communist China. 

This was clearly planned to intimidate. 

Why?  Is this guy short or something?

I had missed his name while gaping at Miss Chinese Australia. 

Shit.

I walked quietly into his office. 

Yup, he’s short.  Oh hell.  This guy is short by Chinese standard.

Thank god he is sitting down.  Why didn’t I think to wear flats!!??

His eyes flashed up.

“Oh good, you’re here and you're white!” he exclaimed.

I was stunned. 

          'White' as in 'Caucasian'?  That is the prerequisite for this job?

But then he paused, his head fully lifted, and the hopefulness dissolved from his face as he took a longer look at me.

“But, errr, you’re a woman”.

Go back to that ‘white’ part where you were happy to see me.

I’m great at being ‘white’.  I can do ‘white’ all day long.

“Anyways, can’t change that now!  I want you to take these brochures and go study them at your desk.  I need you to sell this line of electronics into Europe - Mainland Europe.  If you have any questions, find someone to ask.”

He fanned out about 20 booklets that looked weirder than a Japanese television ad.

Oh sure…

I see where your highly skilled business mind is going with this.

You’ll see, I’m no slouch, I follow! 

Hire a random, white, but preferably vag-less, Canadian university student to come to industrial Kowloon and sell Chinese crap into France, Germany, Belgium or Italy. 

They speak Canadian there.

His manner dismissed me so I quickly scooped up the brochures and scurried out of the office.  What the hell just happened?  I didn’t have time to digest it.  The second I emerged through the door, thirty black haired heads, all with the exact same haircut, looked up, mouths still hanging open. 

Great, I am the office zoo animal.

Blend in Christy, blend in.

Or, bring peanuts tomorrow. 

I turned and saw that the Australian receptionist was standing there.

Ah, so nice of her to wait for me.  She has to know how much I need her. 

Could she be my first office friend? 

Ever so thoughtful, she had cleared a spot for me while I was inside the big red door. 

She flicked her finger towards a chair sitting in a haze of incense smoke.  It was in front of a child-sized, three-legged desk between the photocopier and one of those mandatory Buddhist alters/shrine thingys you see everywhere in Hong Kong. 

It was also the closest desk to the office door of the boss.  Everyone else in the office was on the other side of the photocopier. 

I’d been segregated.

Yeah, nix the office friend idea.  Clearly, you are being punished for thinking her eyes aren’t naturally blue.

I thanked her warmly and tried to gracefully ease into the kindergarten desk for my audience. 

There was no graceful.  The chair was so low I thought I broke a hip landing on it.  The top of my nylons snagged on a metal blur as my first thigh slid across to get in.  The other knee stuck to some gum. 

She turned on my computer and showed me how to launch “WORD STAR”.  She informed me that all the other computers have the shiny new “WORD PERFECT”, but they will be sure to upgrade me soon.

She turned and left. 

Wait.  No invitation to lunch??

I will not be at the cool kid’s table anytime soon.

It had been a bad start to my first Kowloon day.  I needed to self soothe.  I flicked through the first crazed booklet.

It’s not so bad here.  You’ll be just fine.

They’re going to love you once they get to know you.  You’ll be just fine.

How nice.  That the burning incense covers the smell of the decaying oranges and assorted fruit shoved up that shrine.  I wonder how long they have been there.  Wait, won't that attract cockroaches?  You’ll be just fine.

And really, the smoke at my desk is no thicker than at a Canadian campfire. 

You like campfires.  You’ll be fine.

I’m sure the fourth leg to this desk is around here somewhere.  Perhaps you can ask for it this afternoon.

So, what do you think the phone number is for Mainland Europe??

You’ll be just fine.

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Jump in my nightmare, the water's warm!

Late August, Kidlet #1 and I went to the Ontario Science Centre. 

Being into anything high sensory that soaks, stains or obliterates clothing at the beginning of any outing, Kidlet immediately wanted to play at the water table.  Swell.

As we approached the area, I noticed that all the seemingly-with-it-Moms had secured these rather ineffectual pseudo-protective plastic smocks for their kids.  Naturally, there were only enough vests for about 2 in every 25 kids.  It would be another survival of the fittest Mommy moment for me.  My kid just had to have one. 

I stalked families who looked like they were about to leave.  They looked at me irritated.  It’s not like their minivans haven’t similarly tracked me for my SUV sized parking spot at the shopping mall on December 24^th, is it?  We’ve all been there.

Kidlet was getting impatient.

This wasn’t working. 

Darwin, don’t count me out. Change tactics.  Use the Mommy force...

Okay.

Every mother knows that when little kids put their hands in water or anything moist, it is unfailing that they immediately have to urinate.  So, I quickly surveyed the entire section for the weakest link.  There had to be a kid here somewhere, who was mid Michael Jackson’s signature toe stand, grasping desperately at their crotch.

There he is - I see him!

I saddled up to mini-M.J. and I just happened to mention the location of the potty in casual conversation.   

He made his choice. 

Off he went. 

Secure one Mommy point.

I confiscated the smock and whipped it over Kidlet’s head.  Kidlet took off and bounced from the bubble blowing station to the large central table with boats.  He finally settled at the smaller water table to build water tubes & towers.  It was crowded, but Kidlet waited his turn until he secured a water faucet.  He was very content.  I hung back about 10-15 ft., letting him do his brain expanding science thing. 

Secure another Mommy point.  I was on a roll.

After a number of exchanges of kids later, an older boy with Dwarfism moved in beside Kidlet.  They played side by side for a while, until this kid started grabbing at Kidlet’s faucet and tower in a blatant and hostile water tower takeover. 

The black bar is my attempt to protect his identity.

Kidlet held on tight and muttered something at the boy I couldn’t quite hear.

The kid with Dwarfism started to get rough and was downright pushing Kidlet & pulling the water tubes out of Kidlet’s hands.  Kidlet barked something & snatched them back.

Somewhat stunned, Kidlet looked up at me with big brown eyes that screamed “ARE YOU SEEING THIS??”

No one touches my kid!  Here comes his 5ft-11" Mommy!  See how you like that!

I already was on my way to swoop in, straighten out the toys, and give my best Mommy lecture on taking turns to settle it. 

Wait. Whoa. Kill the Mommy motor.

When else am I going to have such a ring side seat to see just how my Kidlet will handle this bully?  I’m not on his school playground.  Kidlet is practically an only child.

So I caught myself.

Let’s see what Kidlet does.  Let’s see if they can sort it out themselves. What’s the name of that turtle in ‘Finding Nemo’ who watches his kid spin out on the E.A.C?  Well, I’m just as parentally cool, man.

There was no doubt, Kidlet was under attack. 

The dwarf kid was starting to elbow and shove. 

My head was spinning.  So far, my Kidlet was holding his own ground.

Double Wait:  Is this a fair fight??!!

The kid with dwarfism looked to be about 7 or 8 years old to Kidlet’s 5 years – so he should know much better.  But, Kidlet was much taller and clearly had size in his favor.

Tough call, where is this on the political correctness scale?

My mind couldn’t spit out an answer fast enough and the shoving was escalating quickly. 

A friend of mine had always told me, as long as her kid didn’t throw the first punch, she would always defend him for defending himself.  I had always agreed with her wholeheartedly.  Was this my chance to show Kidlet I’m his wingman/Mommy?

Trust me.  It is much harder in the moment.  I even surprised myself at my ability to stay out of it - especially, given the circumstances.

Triple Wait:  Is this really happening?

Do I really let my Kidlet get into this with a kid with Dwarfism (of all little people, no pun intended) in middle of the family friendly Science Centre? 

That is a multi-part question.  Damn.

Uhmmmmmm…Yes!  We don’t discriminate here!

Kidlet was clearly shocked and caught off guard that the struggle was still ensuing.  He looked at me for some kind of signal of what to do.

I mentally passed Kidlet the vintage 1984 Karate Kid dojo headband I once saw in a Halloween store.  I leaned back, inflated my lactating breasts, crossed my arms, and gave Kidlet the most confident Mr. Miyagi head nod I could conger up.

Now, it wasn’t like Kidlet was in the flying crane position or anything, but he needed to know I was on board with him defending himself – to a point.

Kidlet was re-energized and kept pulling, all the while telling this kid to ‘LET GO’. 

That’s it buddy, use your loud words!

I surveyed the area to see if I could identify any parental unit that belonged to the bully.  There was no one obvious, but there was a blond woman behind me intently watching this all go down.  The bully was also blond.  She was doing nothing.  But, I made a mental note of her location, should I have made some horrible error in judgment, and this unravel into some kind of tag team WWF thing short one cage.

The altercation continued to get verbal, and by now, elbows from both sides were flying.  Nothing too rough, but it was a struggle.

I started praying Kidlet would not tell this bully to “FOX OFF”.  It clearly was not the moment for me to try and deflect his fledgling swearing habit with a chime in of ‘ANT EATER, SQUIRREL, MOOSE ON!!!’

This confrontation was weird & controversial enough without it sounding like I have some kind of mammal-based mutation of Tourette's syndrome myself.

It was clear that I was Kidlet’s Mommy by the number of times he was visually checking in with me.  Even the other kid figured out who I was, and soon both kids were looking to see if I was going to get involved.

I held firm Miyagi stance. 

Pass me any chopsticks; I'll catch that damn fly!

A couple half-hearted yanks later, the bully backed down.  

He left the water tubes to Kidlet and moved on to pester a smaller kid at another table. 

I breathed a sigh of relief and watched as Kidlet simply returned to his water structures.

Good Kidlet-san. 

Miyagi have hope for you.

© Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts? Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Christy Pieroway and "Am I Blogging Nuts?  Don't Answer That." cpieroway.blogspot.ca with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.