He Kissed a Boy

B and I saw some exceptionally horrid parenting at the beach, and I'm not being picky. There was shocking negligence: parents leaving their non-swimmers in the baby pool while they were several hundred yards away, doing god knows what. Seeing this, after reading 5,000 signs all saying non-swimmers have to be in arm's reach of an adult swimmer, made me understand why they have to print the signs. I read somewhere (Freakonomics?) that pools are more dangerous than guns, and I believe it. I pay such literal attention to everything I'm told about How Not To Accidentally Kill Or Die (Gee, you know, because it seems kind of important!) that I asked my pediatrician if it was safe to have the baby in a diaper while he slept. Because she said there should be "nothing in the crib." Imagine my confusion when she said he could not only wear a diaper, but could also wear tight fighting clothing, be wrapped in a swaddle, and suck a pacifier! Plus, there could be a fitted sheet on the crib mattress! That seems like scads of stuff to me, certainly more than "nothing." The pediatricians need to take note that, though 90% of parents ignore the SIDS recs because oh, the bumper is so cute, and the baby has to have a lovey, there are a few like me, who actually listen. So, like, pediatricians: mean what you say.

I've been told and told that I'm too literal, which pisses me off because, hey, should I take that literally? I remember when I was twelve I was allowed to swim in our neighborhood pool without adult supervision, and I thought that was an arbitrary age. I had been a good swimmer for years, and I could still just as easily drown as before. I would read the "swim at your own risk" sign and panic just a little. I would envision myself suddenly losing consciousness mid-stroke due to I-don't-know-what-undiagnosed-illness, and I would think I could drown at any moment. Now that I have a child, this instinct is more refined and focused. I have a laser gaze, which hones in on Ari's mouth and nose in relation to the water level, and I use it all the time. This causes me to walk into things, but never mind the bruises, or the toppled pile of stuff I knocked over, or the stares of others. I have Locked On. I do not remove my eyes from his face. There could be a hydrogen bomb or a tornado, and we could all get sucked out of the pool and carried to Kansas, but that boy's airway would be Above The Water Line, goddamnit.

This, to me, seems like normal parenting. Making sure that the kid doesn't drown and all. But parents get so tired, and when they come to the beach, they just lose their minds a little bit.

Ari made a friend at the beach. His name was George (changed, of course, plus I don't remember), and he was almost exactly Ari's age. George and his parents, who were actually pretty attentive, hung out at the same kiddie pool we hung out at, so Ari got to know him. Then they started making out. (Ari and George, I mean. Not the parents--they were too tired.)

The make out preparation was always the same. Ari would begin making animal noises, and George would, too. The animal was always some cross between an elephant and a police siren. Then the boys would start smiling and walking towards each other, making the noises and puckering their lips. When they were two inches apart, their mouths would be, well, on each other. And they would just stay there like that, making the animal noises, kissing, and giggling. George's parents seemed both too exhausted and too cool to care. I was surprised, but thought it was pretty cute. George was a good-looking little boy who never hit or screamed, so what did I care? Seriously. Priorities, people. Three year old boys making out is not a catastrophe. Nobody is going to get pregnant, and every three year old has 38 cold sores already.

However. Some people gave looks. The parents who seemed most upset by it were a pair from Rockville (Everyone at the beach resort we went to was from the DC area.) who did not function. The husband was a skinny, poorly-attired man named Larry (changed, of course). The wife was a shrieker who yelled at Larry for being unhelpful, but then would not allow him to help. They had two children. One of them was four. His mother said he had special needs, but from what I could see, his only need was better parenting. Example: The boy (Nate--changed) had a pool noodle and kept poking it into other kids' faces. His mother told him to stop. He kept doing it. She told Nate that if he did not stop, she would Take The Noodle Away. She made sure that he heard her and understood. So far, so good, right? But then! Nate did it again, and his mother DID NOT Take The Noodle Away. Why not? Because she sucks. Thus, poor Nate has special needs. It all seems so simple, in my head. Of course, in the moment, it is Not Easy to Take The Noodle Away. But what choice do we have? We must put down our drinks, get up off of our lazy asses, and wrench that noodle away, pronto, right now, no matter the screams that will ensue, because That Is What We Said We Would Do. We have to mean what we say.

Hours later, after Nate had traumatized the entire kiddie pool with his noodle, I ran into his mother in the ice cream line. She apologized for Nate's behavior, saying he'd been hungry. I wanted to say so many things. I wanted to tell her that she needed to speak to her husband more kindly, that she needed to let him take the boys while she went to the bathroom instead of shrieking about how she couldn't even leave for a single second. I wanted to tell her, above all, that she should have Taken The Noodle Away, that a parent's first duty is to say what she means and to mean what she says, but I said nothing. Who was I, to her? There was nothing to say. My biggest problem was that my son liked to make out with George in public, with siren/elephant noises to ensure everyone was watching. Hers was lack of follow through, and a son who bullied with a noodle, for now. We were worlds apart. But I think of her, now, when I'm tired and don't feel like Taking The Noodle Away.