We were at the playground, my daughter and I. She went to the sand pit to play with another kid. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, which was intentional I assumed. It was one of those organic San Francisco babies dressed to look like a migrant worker. The mother was driving me nuts. She was one of those Mommy Natural types. You know, the kind that wear those hideous baby slings made form curtains, sing Baa Baa Black Sheep with utter abandon, wear hats that look like they’re made out of worry dolls, and dress their babies in clothes that look itchy, butch and biodegradable. Their status symbol is organic produce.
Anyway, the woman repeated every action they made. Hers picked up a shovel. “You’ve picked up a shovel,” she cooed.
My daughter picked up a plastic pail. “You’ve got a pail.”
Hers walked away. “You’ve stood up. You’re walking. Oop, you’ve decided to come back and play. No no. She’s playing with the bucket. Can you share? Are we learning to share?”
“I’m still learning that,” I said, trying to be funny. I try every day to blend.
She looked at me in that condescending, green party kind of way.
“I mean, we all are,” I said. “As a civilization.”
“That’s true,” she said. Christ.
Fortunately my daughter grew bored of the It’s Pat kid and ran away, and I thought to myself: I should, like, write about this. But I hadn’t gotten around to it until now.