Sid Happens ~ And That's Just The Tip O' The Iceberg ...

[bloodyrosemccoy]

Fast of Tammuz (Jewish)
National Ice Cream Day
Moon Day (Man's First Lunar Landing)
Special Olympics Day
Independence Day (Colombia)
Marine Day (Japan)

 

The trouble with Learning To Share is the kids in the class I have taken to calling Sids. You know who I mean—those kids who don’t take care of their toys or anyone else’s, who cut Barbie’s hair or lose Optimus Prime’s hands or just bash everything around until it’s unrecognizable. You’ve seen their toys strewn across the floor in a state of disarray, Sharpie, undress, brokenness, or decapitation, and you’re pretty sure your own stuff won’t survive unscathed. You wouldn’t trust them with a frisbee or a Koosh ball, let alone your beloved Barbie doll. You couldn’t hide your cool stuff from these kids because they already knew you had it—maybe they saw you bring it for Show And Tell or were at your birthday party when you unwrapped it—and would keep harassing you to get it out and how could you say “No way you’ll break it” to your friend so you sort of resisted and made up half-assed lies about how it was in the wash or broken already and in for repairs.

 

I had hoped that now that I’m no longer eight I wouldn’t happen to put up with that anymore. Hah! Last night I got slapped with Unexpected Sids. And then … well then it got worse.

 

Last night we were hosting some sort of relatives—Dad’s cousin’s nephew’s family or somesuch—who have a pair of girls aged eight and ten. Somehow I got stuck on Kid Duty, and I wasn’t quite thrilled about this.*

 

So I started showing them around the house, letting them mess around with my origami paper and the exercise bike and exclaim over the view from the deck. And then they found their way to my room, and turned on the light—and my heart sank as I realized I hadn’t gotten time to fix up my room, and it looked like it always does.

 

For those of you who don’t know, part of my room looks sort of like this:

Yeah, you can see where this is going.

 

So suddenly two kids—kids who I had subconsciously branded Sids hours ago—descended upon my beloved collection with all the restraint and poise of the Cloverfield monster. “Let’s play dolls!” they said. “Let’s play dolls right now!”

 

And their parents, who had looked a bit puzzled when they first realized this was my room, suddenly smiled beatifically.

 

SHIELDS UP.

 

A few collectors here may know my dilemma: I am most definitely not the dollmakers’ target market. People assume I’m a little weird for collecting dolls, since I should be a Grown Up (although apparently not a grown up enough not to be the default nanny). But these girls are the exact target of the doll companies. And so when tween girls show up at my place, people somehow put the facts together and conclude that I apparently keep these dolls around in case ten-year-olds want to play with them. If I pointed out that the dolls are fucking mine, and I don’t want some stupid kid flinging them around, I’ll be branded a kid-hating jerk because clearly dolls are for small children.** Small children who are eyeing Summer’s painstakingly molded hearing aids and Kuen’s curly hair and Laurel’s delicate fairy wings and all the easily lost small bits.

 

So I held them off by asking them to tell me about their own dolls (they each have one back at home) while sweeping stuff out of the way, pointing out other features of my room (“Look! I also have a pile of clothes on my chair! And lots of books!”***). I answered their questions about the dolls I had and put up with their comments, until they asked about my favorite historicals.

 

That’s when it got really messed up.

 

“Well,” I said, “obviously I like Molly, but I also like Ad—”

 

“EWWW!” the older one said. “Addy? She’s ugly and gross!”

 

…

 

… Right. I will try to deflect a Sid gracefully. I will accept “Addy is not my favorite” or “Well, I like [some other doll]” or somesuch. But I don’t care if you’re ten years old, or if your parents are watching, or if I am a bad hostess, or if you turn out to have a surgeon’s gentle touch with my things. BITCH, IF YOU ARE GOING TO REFER TO THE BLACK DOLL AS “UGLY AND GROSS,” YOU ARE NO LONGER IN MY ROOM.

 

I would say it was an instantaneous eviction, but in point of fact there were a few seconds in which I whirled on her, snatched the Mini Josefina out of her hand, brandished my beloved travel-companion Mini Addy fiercely at her, and said “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘GROSS’?”

 

I think she may have realized her poor choice of words there, and began to backpedal verbally while physically backing the hell out of my room—partially assisted by the fact that I kept menacing her after a short, impassioned tirade on the subject of maybe thinking about what she just said. I menaced her and her oblivious sister all the way out and slammed the door to my room, and no force on Earth would have gotten her back in. She looked a little shaken, but I noticed there was no more mention of dolls that night. They went for the Wii instead.

 

I went to bed feeling somewhat like I had failed—as you often do when someone else displays absolute wrongness so blatantly.  My furious reactionary tirade doesn't feel like much. My short explosion may have a lasting impression on her, but it may bounce off her just as easily. I didn’t follow it up with her or her parents (“So where did your daughter get her racist streak?”), and I’m feeling like I should have. But the Don’t Parent My Kids rule, plus they’re passing through town on the way to the father’s dad’s funeral, plus, I don’t know, my avoidance of confrontation, stopped me from going further, and it shouldn’t have.

 

I’m just hoping she remembers the tirade I did give her, because my god. Just because you're ten doesn't mean you get to pull that kind of shit.

 

 

*I don’t actually like or hate kids, any more than I like or hate “adults” or “Mormons” or “Canadians.” Some I like. Some not so much. Sort of like, you know, people. And today’s kids fell into the “not so much” category.

 

**When, in fact, I didn’t want to let kids play with my dolls when I myself was a small child.

 

***They don’t like books because Reading Is Hard.

Comments

[sunshine-shaman.livejournal.com]

They got sidetracked with the Wii you say? .... They didn't break that, did they? That thing is my baby. We've been though a lot together, and if anything happened to my dear Oui Wii, I wouldn't know what to do. Please say they were nice to it. Please! There are still so many games that need to be played... memories to be shared with that darling machine.