My apologies …
I’m sorry, but one of the things I learned about parenthood, other than having a travel pack of tissues with you is just as valuable as a grappling hook in Batman’s utility belt, is you’re always apologizing to strangers for your kids.
I apologize an average of 49 times a day for my stepdaughter in places like the supermarket, restaurants, the firing range, animals in a forest or to myself while home alone in the basement, I’m sorry to say.
It pretty much happens when our kid breaks away from us at the store when something catches her eye either in the toy aisle, the candy aisle or the movie aisle — all of which is sometimes the same aisle.
She makes her sudden departure like she’s a contestant on a shopping-spree game during a full moon as she shouts out the name of the item for which she’s salivating. And when she’s on the mad dash away from my wife and I, she usually goes into the path of a shopper trying to navigate through a consumer world, looking for the perfect toy/candy/movie gift.
My automatic response is “Sorry,” followed by “She’s 6,” sometimes followed by, “I assure you, she’s not rabid.”
I don’t know why I feel it necessary to include her age. It could be because my wife always reminds me of her age when I’m about to yell at her for doing some infuriating thing like coloring on the wall, applying makeup to the dog or setting up an exploratory committee to run for Congress.
And I don’t know what strangers are going to say when I inform them of how old she is, as if any difference in age would be the deciding factor of whether or not they whip out a pair of nun-chucks and ask her to step outside.
The average response we hear from people is “It’s OK” or “That’s OK.”
Normally, those who puts the “it’s” before “OK” are annoyed that human reproduction is still a viable enterprise. Sorry if that’s not the case, but that’s the case, is it not?
Please forgive me for assuming, but people who say, “That’s OK” are parents, too, and are a little more sympathetic to your plight. First, they’re glad the roles aren’t reversed, and they’re apologizing to you for their kid slobbering over a Chinese-manufactured plastic that does nothing. Second, they also know you just want to throw that little brat in the $5 movie bin and let them claw their way out of the double pack of “Ernest Goes to Camp” and “Ernest Goes to Jail.”
Some people even understand your circumstance to the point where they need to share their life story with you.
“Oh, that’s OK,” one elderly lady said to me. “I’ve had 6-year-old children before and now they’re grown with 6-year-old children of their own, and Maggie has the twins and their cousins are going to — hey! Why are you running away?”
It’s not that I was bored by the story of Maggie and the twins, the cousins and the remaining family tree, it just so happened that the deluxe Blu-ray edition of “Ernest Saves Christmas” complete with a rotating reindeer candy-cane holder caught my attention as it was sitting all alone in the $7 movie rack.
So if I have to hurt an old lady’s feelings and push shoppers out of my way to get that gem of a gift for my collection, then so be it.
Sorry. I’m 38 … and I may be rabid.