Eavesdropping
Last night my boyfriend worked late and I went to bed early, so we missed our customary fourth phone conversation of the day.
When I woke up this morning and turned on my phone to check messages, there was of course one from him, wishing me a good night. And then, he tried to hang up the phone, but apparently didn’t push the hang-up button hard enough, because after he said goodbye, I heard his car stereo playing for quite a while.
If it were anyone else, I would’ve deleted the message without waiting to hear how long it went on. But, for some reason, I wanted to listen to Tad driving home alone. So I got ready for work this morning with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to the nothing for a good ten minutes, and imagining Tad in his car, starry Houston flashing by outside his windows.
After a couple of minutes of music, he stopped his CD mid-song. His dangling earpiece made static as he reached for another CD from the case on his visor. I listened to the slow, quiet intro. Both the CDs were trance, both artists I didn’t recognize.
Shortly after the new CD got underway, Tad let out a burp. Then, he spit out the window. Although he rarely spits while I’m in his car, I recognized the sound. Although spitting out the window is disgusting, it was endearing to learn that he normally refrains from it when I’m there.
Eventually, the message did end. Weirdly, I felt warm and snuggly after hearing it. (Kind of like that Onion article, “It’s Amazing How Much You Can Learn About A Person Just By Hiring a Private Investigator,” in which a guy is enchanted by the details he learns about his wife while spying on her.)
Sad Little Boy
This morning I was reading the latest breeders vs child-free online crapstorm (this one mainly civilized, though) and it made me think of the little boy we saw at Target the other day.
My boyfriend and I were shopping for baby shower gifts. (We love Target’s crazy baby shoes, whether our friends ever put them on their baby’s feet or not.) My kids were spending the weekend with their dad, so I had time to notice other people’s kids. In particular, I noticed one boy who looked to be about 9, 10, or 11, crammed into one of those shopping carts with the red molded-plastic kids’ seat attached. He sat there quietly while his mom pushed him along and chatted with her friend. Then, apropos of nothing, his mom and her friend stopped the cart and walked off without him, still chatting a mile a minute, to go look at gift bags six or seven aisles away.
“Mom!” the not-so-little boy called. “Mom! I know what I want my birthday party theme to be!”
His mother didn’t even turn to look at him. I don’t see how she couldn’t have heard. She kept talking to her friend, though.
“I want my party to be Transformers!” he called.
If he had said “The Kids Next Door” or “Billy and Mandy” instead, I probably would have rolled my eyes at his poor manners and walked away. But something about his retro good taste and plaintive voice, combined with the modified Buster-Brown hairdo affluent mothers force on their sons so often today, made me feel love and pity for this child.
I almost said something to him, like “Transformers are awesome. Good call.” But then I didn’t, because it would’ve been wrong to reward his cry for attention with attention from strangers. Then, I worried that maybe I should stand next to him until his mother came back, because he looked so incredibly vulnerable to attention from strangers who might not be as well-meaning as me.
I very briefly considered kidnapping him, partially to teach his mother a lesson, and partially because my own kids have some Transformer stuff that they’ve outgrown.
But, in the end, I just silently wished him the best and walked away. That’s all you can ever do, really. Feel sad and hope for the best, and continue doing all you can with your own brats.