Middle school meets middle age

“What is wrong with people?” he asked no one in particular, while thoughtfully glancing out over his Goldfish crackers and sippy cup.

I snapped my head around to make sure I had heard correctly and asked him to repeat himself. And sure as the apple juice mustache on his upper lip, he uttered those same words again while shaking his small head in mock disapproval: “What is wrong with people?”

Although I would have liked to credit such rhetoric to the astuteness of my offspring, I knew there was a greater power at work in his 2½-year-old mind: the echo effect. Like a well-trained parrot, he had already mastered the four-lettered biggies at a young age and had now taken to repeating entire sentences, a scary trait indeed.

I mentally scanned back a few moments prior, when we had navigated an obstacle course of broken beer bottles on our way into the park. It was Sunday morning, and although I don’t consider myself a particularly religious person, the day does hold a certain sacredness. Unfortunately, it is preceded by Saturday night, which, judging by the recent accumulation of glass shards, had been getting a little raucous in the old hood as of late. As I attempted to maneuver small child, dog and baby stroller around the latest party remnants, I found it hard to control my disgust. However, I did congratulate myself on the fact that at least this time I had censored myself before the little sponge had irretrievably absorbed anything profane.

It was the fourth time in as many weeks that we had encountered such a scene at the school grounds. But shattered beer bottles were only the beginning of the petty vandalism. We’d also arrived on Sunday mornings to find cigarette butts scattered among the playground’s wood chips, scorched picnic tables, illegible attempts at graffiti on the equipment, half-drunk 40-ouncers, and swings hopelessly wound out of reach on the upper cross bar.

At first, I’m not sure which was more troubling: the fact that such senseless destruction was taking place, or the fact that it bothered me so. Suddenly, I felt very old. It’s bad enough that I had caught myself admonishing my toddler not to run with a sucker in his mouth a few days earlier, but now here I was, cursing juvenile delinquents for, well, acting their age.

OK, I don’t know for sure they were juveniles. But I’d like to think most adults have better things to do than devote hours trying to ignite a metal table with a Bic lighter or scrawling the name of their latest romantic interest onto monkey bars.

But rather than admit I had crossed the line from rebel without a cause to mother with one, I tried to discount such deviant behavior as simple youthful exuberance.

“I’m sure I did the same thing when I was that age,” I tried to reason.

But deep down I knew that, as hazy as some of my formative years were, I never sabotaged little kids swing sets, set afire public property (I was merely a bystander to that couch burning back in college) or smashed beer bottles just for pleasure (besides, it was all cans back in those days).

A few days later, I ran out of excuses, other than sheer stupidity, for justifying such behavior. Local miscreants had looted the pumpkin patch at my son’s preschool, where the kids had been growing the Jack-o-lantern-bound gourds from seed. Sure, I’ve heard of the Grinch stealing Christmas, but isn’t it a little early for that? I was completely dumbfounded as to the purpose of this senseless act, other than the exhilarating feeling of empowerment that must come from crushing the work of little kids. What else do such thrill-seekers do for fun – torture small animals and snatch old ladies’ purses?

It was about this time that I came to accept, embrace even, the fact that perhaps I was a little closer to mid-life than middle school. As such, I was perfectly entitled to shaking my head in disbelief and muttering disgustedly about “kids these days.”

OK, so maybe a smashed pumpkin or two ranks low on the list of crimes against humanity. After all, there are homeless kids on the Gulf Coast who don’t even have two tiddly winks to rub together, let alone their pick of playgrounds only blocks from their home. Sure, in the grand scheme of world events, a little broken glass and defacement of others’ property may seem inconsequential.

But just remember, sometimes it’s the little things – and little people – that matter most.

– Missy Votel