"Do you like kids?"
What a dumb-ass question. That's like asking "Do you like grown-ups?" Well, some, sure. Most? Not really. Besides, when a person asks that question what they want to know is either, "Do you intend to procreate?" or "Are you comfortable with kids?"
One of the great side-effects of having children is that you don't get asked this question anymore. Which is really silly, because it indicates that people assume that, because you have one or more of your own, you like all of them. In my case, that's a completely false assumption. I still like kids like I like grown-ups - that is to say, not very many of them - and I am still extraordinarily uncomfortable around them, because they are weird.
My daughter is, of course, an exception - that is, she's just as weird as the rest of them, but she doesn't make me uncomfortable because I've been around her enough to understand her alien behaviors. It's like with dogs. If you don't know the species, you may misunderstand the baring of the teeth as a friendly overture when, in fact, you're about to lose a finger. Toddlers are extremely similar, but if you spend enough time around one of them, you can at least identify the warning signs and know when to flee.
So I'm slightly more comfortable with children who are exactly my daughter's age, or up to six months younger (beyond six months ago, I don't remember so well). If they are a day or more older than she, they make me uncomfortable with their unfathomable ways. This makes daycare pick-up pretty tricky, because there are lots of those buggers crawling around.
Usually I take a few seconds to untangle my kid from the fray and then high-tail it for the car. But yesterday this little blond-haired demon child, ala Children of the Corn, cornered me, literally, and started, like, interacting, while I looked around for an escape that wouldn't be too obvious. I didn't want to hurt the kid's feelings, after all, because everybody knows that children possess a telekinetic ability to sense whether a person is good or evil, and as much as children creep me out, I still don't want them to think I'm evil. Luckily most of them give me the benefit of the doubt, with a wise, sage-like twinkle in their eye that indicates they are both slightly amused by my discomfiture, and at the same time graciously forgiving and understanding of it; thus I am generally dismissed not as evil, but as just one of your everyday imbeciles.
But this kid was freaky, and I suspected that rather than benevolently letting me off with a sympathetic nod of dismissal, he would pulverize me by shooting red lasers from his eyeballs if I didn't watch my step.
"My dad's name is Larry," he told me, shifting slightly left and right to keep me from escaping, so I felt like a lamb about to be slaughtered. His blue gaze was steely and unwavering.
"Oh?" I said, because this is my typical response when a child tries to communicate with me. Meanwhile, I was clutching my two-year-old daughter while she gazed down, undisturbed, at the boy-creature. Clearly she, sharing some sort of wavelength with him, understood she was in no danger.
"My mom's name is Mary, and my dad is going to pick me up AFTER dinner today."
"Oh?" I said again, because that's the kind of creative person I am under pressure.
The boy did not let up. "He'll be here at 6:00 and not later."
Was this a threat? Would something happen to me if Larry did not show up by 6:00? Will I be trapped in this corner until then and, if the father failed to appear at the promised time, would I be annihilated? Should I attempt now to toss my daughter to safety, bravely and selflessly sacrificing my own welfare?
"Oh?" I said, because the response hadn't, technically, failed me yet - I was still alive. "Er, and what's your name?" I asked, in a burst of inspiration.
"George and Harry and John," he replied.
This was the most disturbing thing he'd said so far. I didn't doubt he was three people - perhaps he'd eaten the other two? - but felt keenly that my response to this utterly bizarre statement would decide my fate. "That's a lot of names," I said, because it was.
For some reason this seemed to throw him. I could see little sparks going off in his silvery blue eyes, as if his brain were undergoing a severe malfunction. Perhaps he was a robot. In any case, it afforded me that split-second I needed to escape his steely gaze and hurl myself and my daughter out the back door.
God, I hope he isn't there again today. I'd better be prepared, just in case. How does one fend off these things? Garlic? Jelly beans? And today they're all dressed for Halloween - not that that one needs a costume to scare the shit out of me. What if I don't recognize him in time?
If you don't see me on Facebook by this time tomorrow, send help.
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