I planned to write about salad dressing today, but this was weighing on me.
So, after my run on Saturday, I took the kids to the park. We arrived, bright and early, to avoid all the people. I mean, to avoid all the heat. We were there for about 10 minutes, and while I was basking in the euphoria of my gloriously fast four miler, with my kids in the sand box, I was caught off guard by, "CAN I PLAY WITH YOU GUYS?!", being shouted in my ear. What? I didn't quite catch that? And where did you come from, little kid?! Of course you can play. But where's your mother? Oh. There she is, trudging down the sidewalk toward us. Great. I have to talk to someone now. Sigh. There goes my perfectly, peaceful, isolated day.
She got closer. And I got catty. She was an oddly shaped woman, sort of like a slowly, deflating, marshmallow stuck on top of toothpicks for legs. Or something. More and more tattoos of Winnie the Pooh were coming into focus. Counting them all would require some extended stare time, and that's just rude, so I just tried to count really fast. She wasn't from our hood, so, of course, I really needed to scope her out. Hmmmm....I can't see how old she is, behind those Foster Grants. Really? Why do I care what this lady looks like, really? I don't know. Because I'm a recovering snot nose, and I'm judgmental. Mmmkaaay?
Our kids played together in the sand box and she stayed away a bit, on a park bench. I was up to my butt cheeks in sand. I always love that sand in my butt feeling, so to try and ignore it, I made microscopic talk with her. I couldn't seem too rude, right? After all, our kids were playing together. I had no intention of striking up anything significant with her, conversation wise, so don't get any ideas. Besides, she started talking about great deals at Wal-Mart, and that's just a party foul, in my book. I have "special" feelings harbored just for Wal-Mart, but that's another post.
And then. She made the 10 foot migration to the sand box with the rest of us. And then. She started talking about running. Evidently, my rancid body odor, and running shoes, gave away that I might be remotely interested in a talk about running. Great. She brought up a local race, and how she was a runner. And then, my evil thoughts tuned her out, "She's a runner? No way. Those spindly, little legs can't hold her up for a run!? Say Whaaaa?! Man I am so rude! Why am I so rude like this. So Mean! God, help me with this attitude, just let me see what she has to say."
Anyway, when I tuned back in to this AM radio mom lady at the park, her name was Carol, and the kid (Joe), wasn't hers. But he called her mom. Joe's real mom was a drug addict, and Carol was dating Joe's dad. They were going to get married. They all live with Joe's grandma, down the street. Carol gets along great with grandma, they are almost the same age. Yeah, I know. I'm starting to get confused too, better start taking notes. Because. There is more. K?
Joe has lived with them for about six months. He is four years old. Joe just learned his ABC's and 1-2-3's. He didn’t know them six months ago. Carol is thirteen years older than Joe's dad, (don't know dad’s name, so I named him Clark (goes good with Carol)) and they get along great, except for the times when Clark is an idiot, and when they fight all the time. Sometimes Carol feels she needs to stay in the relationship for Joe. But Carol loves Clark and so they will get married. Unless Clark’s ex wife is really, truly, pregnant with Clark’s baby again, and then she might not marry him after all. Joe's real mom would only give up Joe to Clark if Clark slept with her, and that is why she might be pregnant again with another little Joe. Holy. Cow.
You gettin all this? What? I thought the ex wife was an addict? What? Who is pregnant with who‘s baby? I'm so confused. Okay, no questions, just listen. Just listen. I can do this! What?!
Joe has had a rough four years of life. Carol had a rough life too. She wants to take care of him. Maybe make his life less painful than it has been. Joe's dad was in the hospital, for 5 weeks. But, no. Wait, she just tells Joe that his dad is in the hospital. Joe's dad is really in jail, for a parole violation. Oh. My.
She home schools Joe. Carol is not custodial, so, she can't put him in school right now, or afford preschool for that matter. At least not while dad is wearing all neon orange and stuff. She doesn't want Joe in the foster system. She was there. It's the worst place in the world. She got Joe's preschool curriculum at the dollar store. She moved from the west side. Away from her grown kids, grandkids, her friends, her job. So she could take care of Joe full time, while dad is, um, away. She's trying to get a part job at the dollar store down the street, in the evening, to help support Joe.
Carol runs two miles a day. Early in the morning before grandma goes to work. I still can't get over this part. I kind of want to race her. Just so God can prove to my bratty, arrogant, self, that anyone can run, and run faster than me. She will probably smoke me. Anyway, Carol runs with a knife. Yeah, that's right. It's dark out when she runs, so she feels safer. Carol wanted to know what time I go out and run. I had a quick, paranoid debate about not telling her, lest she, the girlfriend of a convict, be out there waiting to stab me at 4:00 a.m. But I told her anyway. Besides, I can box a marshmallow on toothpicks right? Logistically, I think I can take her. Bah! There I go again, all mean and stuff!
Carol is a biker chick. She has a, something or other, kind of bike. It's a 2007 year model. It's an awesome bike, and she has all the biker gear. Her family is a biker family. Okay, I take back what I said, I can't, and won't, try to box her now. I'll just take my 4:00 a.m. chances that I can run faster than her.
All this. In 30 minutes or less. From a total. Stranger.
I could have scurried my kids all up and herded them away like a frightened quail, when I heard, Wal-Mart, or convict, or parole, or KNIFE! But I didn't. We made a very odd couple indeed. Up to our butts in sand, digging around aimlessly with little kid toys, two complete strangers, who needed something from each other.
She needed to talk. And I needed to listen. And listen good.
Listening. Something I'm pretty terrible at with those I love. I'm too much of a bossy know-it-all to be a good listener. Maybe God sent this stranger so I could practice being an engaged, non judgmental, listener. Or maybe I was to be her, stranger than fiction friend, for thirty minutes, because that's what she needed. I think both.
It was time for them to go. So. I said, "Maybe I'll see you out there on the trail!" I wasn't ready to be her besty. Not just yet. I was far more likely to fake number her, if it came down to it. Well, maybe not. That would be lying, and surely get me stabbed and rolled into the canal, if that's what that knife is really for! But it's not. So I wished her the best, and told her she was doing a great job with Joe.
I watched them walk away. Kind of sad that they were going, but I was glad for the chat. Better than anything I’ve seen on TV lately, that’s for sure. She stopped with Joe to look at everything he wanted to look at along the way. Dog poop, bugs on the ground, things four yearolds like. Enabling learning. It was pleasant to see. And then. I realized, the most unlikely people can be pretty amazing. She was an unlikely lady, from whom I learned an unlikely lesson. Mom-hood is tough sometimes. Especially alone. All moms need friends. All kinds of friends, in all different places, at all different times. I wasn’t too good for her, or for anyone. Ever. For that matter, shame on me for being so isolated and independent in my ivory tower. Who am I? I am no one in particular. I was just where I was supposed to be. To learn something. About me.
We mothers. We all have a common goal. To raise our future. The best we can. So let’s be friends, shall we? Even with biker chicks. Who run. In the dark. With knives.
