Dawson is a little boy in Gutsy's class. I don't know him very well, but I do know that Gutsy really likes him. He lives about two blocks from our place, so you would think the boys would get together and play sometimes, but they don't. And it's all my fault.
One day, about a year go, I decided my van had suffered enough neglect and needed a good cleaning. By 'good cleaning' I mean it probably needed to be dunked in a lake of bleach, but a quick tidy would have to do. So, I brought Gutsy and Spawnling outside to play while I tackled the colossal, overdue task.
I admit, I got a little obsessed doing it. I mean, there was a lot to clean up. Some of the old food I found was growing new forms of life on it, while the old toys had been stepped on so much they had broken into fun and exciting new toys. "Hey, kids! It's everybody's favourite hazardous action figure, Pointy Pete! Whoa! What's attached to his arm? Not a hand holding a jackhammer anymore! No way! It's a long, sharp piece of undoubtedly lead-laden plastic! Nobody can stab like Pointy Pete! Awesome!!"
I was busy helping Pointy Pete and his band of eye-gouging superheroes into my shiny green plastic bag, when I heard a sweet voice from the road saying. "Hey, little guy. I don't think your mommy would want you in there."
We have a ditch in our front yard lining he edge of the road. It's fairly deep as far as ditches go - probably about four feet - and is filled with weeds, varying levels of water, and sharp rocks. Guess where Spawnling was? Spawnling, who had never gone into the ditch and has not again since that day, was splashing around merrily in his rubber boots. And what was yours truly doing while this dangerous activity was going on? Why, I had half my body in the van as I reached for an old juice box under one of the bucket seats, with the radio on just loud enough to drown out any sound of my toddler creeping into the ditch to, well, drown.
I looked up when I heard the voice, and saw a mother and her two boys stopped on the road in front of my house. One child stared at Spawnling quizzically from his stroller, while the other one waved and said "Hi, Gutsy."
"Hi, Dawson!" replied Gutsy.
"Oh, shit," replied I under my breath. It's bad enough that another mom had to coax my child out of danger's way. The fact that our boys knew each other was the cherry on my embarrassment sundae. Awesomeness.
I helped Spawnling out of the ditch, sputtering something about how he had never done that before, and how my back had been turned for only a minute, and how I appreciated her noticing, and how it's nice that Gutsy and Dawson are friends, and that hopefully we'd see them again.
She was incredibly nice and warm, leaving insecure me to assume that she was simply quite good at concealing her judgment. I had it set in my mind that she would be going home to Tweet about how the mother down the road might want to actually supervise her children sometimes.
Fall turned to winter, which turned to colder winter, which turned to warmer winter, which eventually turned to a few short weeks of spring, which turned into a summer that felt more like spring, and eventually into fall again. All through the months I would hear about how one of my friends is caring for Dawson before school, and how nice his parents are, and how another friend's child went to Dawson's birthday party, and how lovely his mother is. I would nod and smile politely, all the while feeling shame churning 'round in the pit of my stomach. Gutsy would tell me virtually every day that he wanted Dawson to come over and play. I would smile nervously and wonder just how much his parents would not want him to come over and play at the irresponsible Maven's house.
Today, I met my good friend The Dog Whisperess and her daughter Diva at our neighbourhood park. While Gutsy, Spawnling and Diva were arguing for artistic control over their sand creature frolicking joyously in the warm fall air, a very familiar boy came skipping down the path.
Dawson.
My heart jumped. This was it. In a few moments, his mother would turn the corner, call to memory our unfortunate first meeting, and blast me with the cold stare of judgment. My heart leaped into my throat as I awaited the reality of what was to come.
She turned the corner.
She walked down the path.
She stopped and... smiled? Was she smiling? No, that must be a grimace. She was grimacing at me because I am an awful parent who didn't notice my two-year-old about to be sucked into the Ottawa River through a series of waterways.
"Hi! How are you?" she beamed. And it wasn't one of those polite 'How are yous' - The Maven would know, as I am a social goddess in most circles - this was a genuine, happy greeting.
She stopped and talked to us for a good while as the children played. In that conversation I mentioned my embarrassing first impression in that ha-ha-but-seriously-I'm-not-a-horrible-mother kind of way. She laughed about it and said something really nice and reassuring about how that happens to everyone - and not in that 'I'm just trying to make you feel better, you trashy excuse for a parent' kind of way, either.
I left the park with their phone number and tentative plans to meet at the park again in a few days.
Dawson's mom is very nice and she doesn't hate me. I'm glad it only took me a year of assumptions and avoidance to resolve this little issue. Not bad. I feel much better.
