The Boys of Summer

After I learned that our friend was bringing her two young boys to the house for Labor Day, I had some time to let it all sink in and come up with a plan.

The youngest one never was too much of a problem but the oldest is another story. He earned the nicknames of "Damien," "Little Nicky," and others that I've forgotten because his behavior was so bad that he could only be the spawn of Satan. Only a child of such lineage could scream for hours on end, create havoc at every step and then perform a grand finale of such magnitude that I'm surprised the lights stayed on.

But things have improved. I suspect his mother is medicating him but it's possible that he's just growing up. In the old days I'd guess that Dad had "knocked some sense into him" but that probably isn't the case.

I guess my exposure to children at the zoo has had a remarkable effect on me. Now that I realize they're actually quite cute and fun and very, VERY precious, once again I'm back to wishing that I had some in my life so that I could experience at least a small amount of what it's like to have my own. It would have been easier when I was younger and I don't really like it when kids think I'm elderly, but I can't blame them. I move like I'm 95 years old.

Anyway, I thought taking the kids to the pool could be fun so I called up their mom the day before and extended the invitation. This would accomplish a few things:
1- Give their mom and our other guests some relief,
2- Increase the chances that our "things" would survive their visit,
3- Be a right nice thing for me to do,
4- Give me the chance to prove I can be trusted.

As it turned out, they couldn't wait to go and from their point of view couldn't get ready soon enough. Their mom told them I had her authority to "spank" them if they misbehaved and I added "or hold you under" quietly so she couldn't hear. And off we went for the fairly long walk past all the garage doors, through the three locked gates to the pool, the two boys talking simultaneously and incessantly the whole way.

I didn't ever intend to get in the water with them. I am too white, jiggly and hideous to be seen without clothes. But once we arrived I did pull off my shoes and socks and sit with my feet in the water. It was a beautiful day and the pool refreshingly cool. The kids didn't waste any time getting in but almost immediately I realized there was a problem. Those damn wasps that are plaguing the complex right now are also landing in the water. And I don't blame the kids for not wanting to get into the water with a bunch of floating bugs.

The youngest didn't have much of a problem. He was restricted to the steps where he could hold on anyway. But the older of the two was kind of a sissy about it. (I think he's going to have a full resume of issues for a future psychologist.) I took a couple of dead wasps out with my hands and promised that was all of them, something I realized at the time I had absolutely no authority to do, and told him to git swimmin. But the older boy kept saying there were still more bees in the pool.

And, yes, they both just kept talking. Talking talking talking talking until I nearly started belting out an Ethel Merman song as loud as I could.

Realizing that he was right and my eyesight was pure crap, I found the pool cleaning net and started plucking live and dead wasps out of the pool. It was a losing battle, though, because the stupid things seemed to land in the water as fast as I'd pluck them out. So I gave up.

I was sad about being so self-conscious because I really wanted to shed my clothes and get in the water. I don't suppose the kids would have said anything about my scary body. I even fantasized about being in such great shape and so totally uninhibited that I would pull of my shirt, drop my pants and jump in wearing only my cute black briefs. (Who would care about that?) I've known and admired people who are at ease with themselves like that.

I took some photos of the kids (but can't post them because their mom said "no") and several of half-drowned and dead wasps. The youngest boy didn't understand what "don't put your grimey little fingers on my lens" and "you splash this camera and it'll be the LAST thing you do" meant. (tee hee hee, not really) Finally I got the younger one to get out of the pool, got them both dried off and we went back to the house. They were then back in their mother's custody after a report on their excellent behavior.

Later, we were all in the kitchen. Their mom (who also just kept talking talking talking talking talking) was helping with dishes and stuff and the kids started to get in the way. The litle pre-schooler got caught throwing fridge magnets at the cat. (bad Karma!) That's when I amazed even myself. Brace yourselves, friends who know me well. I took him into the living room, hugged him and said I loved him just as much as I love my cat and would never throw anything at HIM. Then we plopped down in front of the TV and watched cartoons.

A little while later he held my hand, hugged me and said "I love you."

When they were gone and the house was quiet again, it felt empty. I found myself thinking, for a while, that maybe my life has been a big selfish waste of time. But I just couldn't live a day longer if I believed that to be true. So, true or not, in the interest of life I will deny it.