THE
POWER PARENTS
They’re perfect. In every way. They have glossy hair,
shiny teeth, smooth tans and overall stunningly healthy
good looks that seem as effortless as my morning bed head.
Their children are glorious, brilliant, and incapable
of being even two degrees less than stellar. Even when
they’re crouched on the sidewalk eating weeds and
sticking their fingers in dog poo.
These
parents have planned carefully for their children’s
future and have already pre-registered their brethren
at Yale. Of course, their youngest is six months old and
enjoys eating her own snot, but these parents are bound
and determined to have a litter of well-bred, side-talking,
Ivy League-ers and nothing will stand in their way. Not
even your shin when you’re in line at the market
and they’re cruising their fist-sucking seed past
you like you don’t even exist. Nothing. Will. Stand.
In. Their. Way.
THE
OVERINDULGENT PARENTS
"Now, Thomas? What does Mommy say about jumping on
the sofa? Huh? What does she say? What does she say?"
Well,
apparently, she doesn’t say, "GET OFF THE FUCKING
SOFA NOW, YOU LITTLE PEE FACTORY, BEFORE I STAPLE YOU
TO THE CEILING."
It’s
utterly amazing to me that a grown person above the age
of, say, twenty, can suddenly allow themselves to be ruled
by a person roughly the size of a rabid wombat with the
intellectual capacity of a crouton.
"Thomas!
Leave the nice woman alone! I’m sure she doesn’t
like it when you hit her with your Popsicle. No, I’m
sure she doesn’t. Do you want to hit Mommy with your
Popsicle? Come hit Mommy with your Popsicle! Come on!"
Here.
Give ME his Popsicle. I’d be GLAD to hit you with
it. And, when I’m done doing that, I’d be more
than happy to take a few swings at you with this stop
sign because, lady? IT’S A KID, NOT A TERRORIST.
Here’s a tip: HE’S SMALLER THAN YOU. AND HE
DOESN’T HAVE A GUN. SMACK HIM ON THE HEAD AND MOVE
ON.
THE
HORROR SHOW PARENTS
Otherwise known as the "My children suck and so does
that ungrateful, lazy bastard who knocked me up in the
first place" parents. Very often seen in line at
the post office, the Jewel-Osco, Wal-Mart, the unemployment
office (where I spent many a sundry Tuesday afternoon,
hungover, bitter, angry and utterly alone), an air and
water show, or any fine dining establishment involving
trays, plastic cutlery, and high school students behind
the cash registers.
Their
children are, inevitably, filthy, loud and terrifying.
I’m not talking about a little cotton candy stuck
to their cheeks, either. I’m talking about cotton
candy from TWO WEEKS AGO stuck to their cheeks. The parents
are, inevitably, filthy, loud and terrifying. A mullet
would not be unheard of in this situation. Neither would
a lit cigarette. BEHIND THEIR EAR. Screaming at their
children for doing nothing other than, well, breathing?
Par for the course. Screaming at their lone family member
(who, for some bizarre reason, has tagged along for the
pure enjoyment of what I don’t know) about the children
who are the biggest fucking wastes of space since that
motherfucker Larry who STILL hasn’t picked up his
bass guitar? Totally and completely expected.
THE
EXPOSED NERVE PARENTS
Jimmy? Where’s Jimmy? What’s he doing? WHAT
DO YOU MEAN HE’S IN THE KITCHEN? There’s that
one door we haven’t baby-proofed! Yes, I KNOW IT’S
ABOVE THE SINK AND IT’S MADE OF STEEL! He could still
get hurt! Okay. I got him. I GOT HIM. Did you bring his
vitamins? HIS VITAMINS! Oh, for God’s sake! He can’t
go through the day without his A, B-complex, C, E, sharkfin,
whale blubber – WHAT’S HE DOING NEAR THE APPLES?!!!
HE COULD BE ALLERGIC TO THOSE! Put those away! FAR AWAY!
Oh, and keep him away from the flour. And the salt. And
anything silver. NO! NOT THE WOOL JACKET! NOOOOO!
Jimmy
will grow up to be a serial killer with a penchant for
wool. He will snort salt, brain his victims with a warped
steel door and will dispose of the bodies in vats of applesauce.
THE OLD PRO PARENTS
Once, they were model parents. Caring, concerned, cautious.
They promised to do everything by the book and swore they
would raise the most excellent children that ever would
roam the planet.
Mrs.
Pro popped out their fifth and final kid about a year
ago and promptly had her entire reproductive system removed
JUST TO BE SURE. And Mr. Pro had a vasectomy and made
the doctor sign a statement declaring that he would NEVER,
under any circumstances, allow the procedure to be reversed.
Their
second oldest kid is in the basement, conducting an experiment
involving peanut butter, the family rabbit, a socket wrench,
and the sump pump. Another kid is sitting in the sandbox,
forcing the youngest kid to lick the wet sand in the corner.
The oldest kid, a rather studious type, has retired to
his bedroom to read the latest edition of the dog-eared
magazine he found shoved behind his dad’s toolbox.
The centerfold, in particular, interests him.
And
Mr. and Mrs. Pro? Why, they’re on the veranda entertaining
their newlywed next-door neighbors, Becky and Wyatt. Mr.
Pro treats himself to a third margarita as Mrs. Pro lazily
sips her fourth. Becky and Wyatt are still nursing their
first. Becky and Wyatt brightly declare that they’ve
decided to start having children right away. Mrs. Pro
cackles aloud in a voice raw from screaming at ears that
never seem to hear. She laughs so hard that margarita
comes out her nose. Mr. Pro just smiles wryly as his dear
little girl toddles in and smears Wyatt’s left leg
with what she refers to as "doggy chocolate."
"Good
luck," says Mr. Pro as his wife continues to laugh
and laugh and laugh.
she