Megan and I are both getting more parent-y by the second. We’ve already moved well beyond the not-being-grossed-out-by-bodily-excretions stage; most mealtime conversations revolve around what Hazel did or did not pass through her body that day. Hopefully, this is the only time in our lives that taking a massive poop at the dinner table qualifies as a witty rejoinder. Yesterday, Megan turned one more corner toward total parent-ness while making dinner. Looking out the window above the kitchen sink, she declared, “Those damn kids are in our yard again!” [Editor’s Note: She might not have cursed, but it makes a better story if she did.]
For privacy’s sake, our road name will heretofore be known as Awesome Land North. Awesome Land North is a quiet, little cul-de-sac running directly parallel to Awesome Land South, a down and out dead end. Our AL North backyard abuts (haha) the backyard of a nigh identical suburban plot of land over on AL South — a small expanse of trees and shrubs serves as a line of demarcation between us. Toward the back corner of our half-acre is a low spot where water collects, often cited by Megan as evidence that we own waterfront property. A gaggle of AL South elementary schoolers insist on playing in this muck, climbing on fallen trees and throwing around mud and rocks. They don’t do any real harm, but it bugs us to no end just the same. I’ve spoken with them a few times, asking them to not play in our yard but somehow, they always manage to wander back over, sometimes moving well past the “shoreline” to within an arms length of our home.
It just reminds me of a stereotypical neighborhood old man, shaking a liver-spotted fist at a group of giggling children who never retreat further than just beyond the reach of a garden hose spray. Add this to my getting up early at Big Dave’s Bachelor Party to turn off all the lights someone left on overnight, the white hairs that are threatening a coup by my left temple, my prideful obsession with the state of my lawn, and my honest enjoyment of picking up sticks in the yard after a good rainstorm, one starts to get a fairly focused profile of a cantankerous dad. I almost want Hazel to start dating just so I can dislike whomever she brings home.
Almost.
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Man, its the same on the other side of the Great White Way from you. These numbknuckles don’t seem to understand private prop’ty and it bugs me no end too (both seeing them farting off in the yard, and my reaction to it).
The day we bump into each other caps tipped back and quilted flannel shirt-jackets spread on the bleachers for comfort as we watch high school basketball: that’s the day its over for us as youngsters.
That previous post reminded me of the Simpsons quote from Bart “And I can be one of those 35 year old men with no kids who goes to high school baseketball games.”
Well Old Man Ragozzine, I guess you can expect some hearty retribution in the form of smashed jack o’lanterns and egged cars once those wee tykes you’re kicking out of their beloved puddle hit adolescence. You can always put some kind of permanent dye in the puddle, which might at lease help identify them for future reference.
Now that you’re Mr. Domestic Dad, go clean out those gutters (I assume you have gutters, right?)
No, I don’t have gutters. Thanks for reminding me of that lemon-juiced lacerated fact.