A Fine Line Between a Parent and a Pimp
I hope you realize that my passionate desire to share your pudgy love with the world is not a passive attempt to pawn you off on any willing bystander. I want you to trust the world, to feel safe, to know that the majority of people on this planet are inherently good.
Not to mention, you make it so easy. The minute a stranger walks through the door, your eyes transmit pure joy. You’re sincerely interested in their existence, curious as to who they are as an entity without judgement or prejudice. Your intention is pure, your love is unconditional.
How can I deny someone of that incredible, indescribable feeling? It’s intoxicating, addictive, better than sex, vintage port and a trip to Tahiti rolled into one!
“Come here handsome, come on!” says an older gentleman sitting next to me at our local cafe. Dressed smartly in a freshly ironed button down shirt and khakis, he stretches out his long arms towards you. His enormous watch-face dangles, catching your raccoon like attention, but you cringe back into my chest as if you want to climb inside and hide.
“Come on…you’re so sweet, come to me,” he sings in cooing tones to no avail. You’ve made up your mind and have zero interest in making yourself available.
Looking up, you sigh as if to say, “Mom, do not betroth me to this man with bad breath and freaky hands. He’s got ‘needy’ written all over him’.”
“He’s a bit tired,” I reply. It’s my default response whenever you give the sign to call it quits, but he persists using Portuguese old man voodoo magic. Calling on his shape-shifting spirits, his eyes suddenly droop, his shoulders fall sad and his voice drops a few octaves. “Come to grandpa little man, just for a second. I so miss my children being babies.”
Feeling trapped, seduced, guilted into passing you into his arms, he smiles broadly and draws you near. Absolutely clear that you’ll have no part of it, you vice-grip his nose and pull with all your might, nose hairs stretching in a spaghetti like fashion across the room.
Quickly retrieving you back into the safety of my arms, I feel your nose nestling deep into my neck, your arms like bear claws around my shoulders. “I’m so very sorry,” I whisper to you, cocking my head only slightly to see the gentleman, my eyes speaking volumes in despair.
He smiles, waves his hand in the air as if to say, “It’s part of being a kid” and walks towards the door unscathed. I, on the other hand, feel like a shitty pimp, and even worse mom.
Lesson Learned:
Sweetheart, there are times when you’re going to question if you can trust your instinct: if the voice in your head is real, authentic, your own. There will be times when you’ll be wrong and curse the heavens for being an idiot, but when you learn its unique, one-of-a-kind song, don’t turn away. Listen with all of your might, because quite honestly, it’s the best tool you have in your toolbox.
In this case, I knew better. I knew you didn’t want to be held by him and I allowed myself to be guilted. I treated you like a shiny, beautiful toy that wasn’t mine to lend out, and for that, I’m sorry. On the flip side, it’s good to know your angelic side has a claw bearing twin to counteract your brilliant halo.
Flickr photo by Nelson Lourenço
