I was asked to take Arthur to school again (see Walking a Kid to School… https://athingirl.com/2015/11/29, so while I waited on the playground for him to safely go in, I quietly observed. Think Bemelmans in sweats, with no alcohol…sigh
There was the Frenchman whose daughter kissed him on both cheeks twenty times leaving them red with, Papas, please no go.
The kid hanging on his mother’s leg like a monkey screaming for dear life.
The nanny on her phone ignoring her charge who had to pee. Yes, I pointed this out only to have her turn her back continuing the conversation as the little girl, who clearly couldn’t help it, relieved herself ruining her snow white tights that were now a canary yellow.
Mustn’t forget the dogs chained on the other side of the fence who believe me, like Nana in Peter Pan, would take better care of these children.
Arthur, who was having a cranky morning, was sitting alone on a cold stoop looking into space. He hadn’t slept much, he told me, and when I prodded further said, his mother made his dad, he only sees twice a month, bring him home early. Pluck went the strings of my heart. Parents need to take themselves out of the equation where joint custody is concerned.
“Yeah, but his dad was unfaithful to his mother,” my friend who normally takes Arthur to school said.
“I don’t care if his father’s Casanova, he’s still his father.” Having a mother whose harem rivaled Ali Baba’s, I totally understand.
Then, a perky blonde in a white furry parka with matching boots and huge Burberry earmuffs making her look like a radio announcer from Massapequa, sidled up to say, “Isn’t it just great being out here in this early morning air…inviga-rating, right…am I right?.”
If you’re dressed like a polar bear with a charge at Saks, I suppose. No I didn’t say that. Thank God Connecticut said, Susannah, I got this.
“Yes, what a treat to be out at 8 a.m. in 20 degree weather. Like farmers, or Eskimos?”
“Eskimos, that’s a hoot. Omigod, could you imagine?”
Actually, since she was about as interesting as an ice sculpture, I could imagine very little, especially watching Arthur out of the corner of my eye looking like a young, chubby, cereal killer (he’s 10, serial just doesn’t apply).
As this woman cooed some more in sentences I honestly can’t remember, I caught Arthur blowing his nose. Oh no, is he crying?
“Are you divorced?” I inappropriately asked the woman.
“How did ya know?”
“I was just wondering. Your little girl (who was in deep conversation with the one who had the accident like a mini social worker in snow pants), does she see her father regularly?”
“Of course. He’s her dad after all.” Her stock shot up as if J.P. Morgan had just strolled across the playground.
I then marched over to Arthur and said, “Ya want me to ask your mom if I can pick ya up later? We can go to Panera for bagels (he told me his dad takes him there)….and then I committed the babysitter’s cardinal sin by adding…and if you want, you can call your dad…on my phone (leaving no trace).”
After he gave me an award winning smile, looking like his old self, he heeded the – time to go in – whistle telling me, he hopes his mom says yes.
While leaving I passed the ice sculpture who said, “Eskimos…that was such a hoot.”
What could I say?
“Nice earmuffs,” before calling Arthur’s mom who said, “Schua, I’d lah-vvvv if you picked up Ah-tha.”
Anything for a kid.