Prison Rules in the Suburbs
Today I have one thing on the calendar. I get to meet a new neighbor and tell her how fortunate I feel that we've moved into a neighborhood where her little man-child is free to roam the streets and/or neighborhood park demonstrating his stellar social skills. Further, I can't wait to talk about her husband's career choice ... his son is quite proud Daddy's a judge. Judge of what, I'm not sure, but apparently not a judge of character as his man-child demonstrates.
In our little planned community we have parks .. planned parks ... where the little suburbanite children can play with their other suburbanite peers. I've only ever experienced one type of throw down in these little utopias ... but that was by the meanest kid in the world from Colorado. Here in the land of Zion, Saratoga Springs Utah County no less, people seem to be one way or the other. Your either a cloud cruiser (you float on clouds), or a walker. We're walkers. We don't have a cloud and live by the mantra that if you spit in the wind it's bound to come back and hit you in the face. It gives us a lot of personal wiggle room when our kids misbehave in public places.
In Saratoga Springs, Utah County we see alot of pleghm floating around. Apparently spitting in the wind doesn't have the ramifications we imagined. They spit alot, but I'm not sure the phlegm has yet caught up with the cloud floating masses. This mentality has created man and woman children with phenomenally naive social skills that would get their little asses a swift beat down anywhere else in the world. Yesterday, at the planned coummunity park, Bradyn was fortunate enough to be intoduced to a phlegm spitting little by product we will refer to as "the boy".
Bradyn grabbed a buddy and they headed for the park yesterday. The two of them are rather unassuming kids and Bradyn, although my 100lb built like a brick linebacker 3rd grader, is a sensitive fellow. Captain Sensitive met "the boy" when "the boy" saw fit to introduce himself with a social ca-cah (crow sound) flauncing his peacock feathers and obvious king of the neighborhood park status. "The boy" looked at Bradyn's friend, pointed at Bradyn, and said, "who's this fag?" Huh. I've never been asked my name with that amount of passion in the statement. He's obviously well trained at home in social etiquette.
"The boy" is about 3 years older than Bradyn and his friend, so his friend treaded lightly when he responded, "he's not a fag, he's my friend." "The boy" wasn't quite satisfied with this response and he obviously was concerned about Bradyn's financial situation so he responded with, "what's your dad do for a living, pick up trash? My Dad's a judge!" Huh. Bradyn apparently informed the kid his Dad does not pick up trash for a living. Good comeback son (we'll work with him).
"The boy" returned the comeback with again asking Bradyn's friend who the new fag was. At this point, Bradyn and his friend were a little scared so they hightailed it to the friends house to get his 15 year-old sister to come meet with "the boy" and explain to him that Bradyn was indeed not a fag and his Dad does not pick up trash for a living. Their plan was thwarted when the sister refused to meet "the boy" because she didn't really care.
Bradyn recounted the whole social interaction that night at dinner. Now, for most situations at our house we live by prison rules. Prison rules are the only way to successfully manage having 4 boys. Prison rules dictate no snitching and only come see me if there's blood, and it has to be alot of blood, minor trickle, work it out. The boys have learned that in prison rules you just work it out ... social interactions, battles, brawls, whatever. But, I've never had a man-child bring it to the doorstep referring to my man-child as the by product of a trash picking up father who procreated with his mother to create what obviously appears to be a fag to socially superior peacocks of the park.
I stared in awesome wonder as Bradyn finished his story. I nodded. I was quiet. I wasn't quite sure what to say. The fag comment. We're not homophobic in our home, but come on, this wasn't a reference to the kids sexuality, this was a nasty little trash talking socially retarded child who apparently didn't get the memo that the word fag is not okay. It's a slang better reserved for the underbelly of the planet sporting confederate flags and trailers in the woods complete with rotting couches on rotting front porches who throw around the word "sumbitch" when referring to their family members.
The daddy picking up trash for a living ... and "the boys" Dad being a judge. Jon indeed does not pick up trash for a living, but I think if he saw "the boy" he might momentarily change his profession to pick up trash, aka "the boy" and take him to the county dump where he belongs. While my mind was processing the whole scenario I weighed out prison rules against getting involved versus real live bullies. The one thing I have in my aresenal as a mom is fear. A man-child, no matter how tough he thinks he is, when approached by a mom will either a) pee his pants b) flee the scene of the crime and pray the mom doesn't ever talk to his mom.
I calmly asked Bradyn if he told "the boy" that his mom was crazy as hell because she is the mom of 4 boys and she might have to visit the park to get aquainted with the judges nasty mouthed by-product. Bradyn smiled. I wasn't really kidding. I asked Bradyn if he told "the boy" what his dad does do ... and if he added the part that daddy spent 12 years in the military and is freaking mercenary (not a mercenary, his purple heart nomination came from the time he was in Iraq and his MRE had rotten M&M's ... it caused some PTSD) who brings down the pain when he plays Call of Duty on the x-box? Bradyn had not informed the kid he had a crazy as hell Mom or a mercenary for a father.
Bradyn and I chatted about "the boys" social skills seriously needing a brush up, and told Bradyn next time he interacts with the boy he should for sure arrange an introduction between "the boy", his crazy as hell mother, and his mercenary father. So I slept on all of this. This morning I have made a decision. Prison rules aside, I can't really stand by and have this little snot, "the boy", roaming free around the neighborhood frew to spew his venemous slander ... especially at my kid. Today, I have chosen to open the Mom arsenal. My sources, Mom's have sources, never doubt that Mom's have sources, have already informed me of "the boys" locale.
First thing this morning I am going to walk to said locale, with my son, and introduce ourselves as being new to the neighborhood. I will smile sweetly as I ask to meet "the boy" so I can get a visual of whether or not he has a blackened rotting front tooth (hillbilly style). I will watch in pleasure as the boy is called to the front door to see his victim, the fag, and his mom standing on his turf. I will take notice when the boy pees down one leg knowing that his time is at hand to be called out on his social interactions at the park. I will tell "the boys" mom how obviously proud he is of his daddy and his profession as a judge ... and how "the boy" is convinced and ready to comment that any other kid at the playground has a dad who works in sanitation.
I can only hope that "the boy" has a mother who is also crazy as hell. I can only hope she isn't beat down and sweet and allows her 15 children to run the neighborhood and her household like a hillbilly haven. Further, I hope the judge has a large wooden paddle, possibly with holes in it to prevent wind resistance while teaching "the boy" social skills are taught in the home.
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