Okay, so it’s time for a little playground envy bitchery. I take Knitbaby to a playground park in our neighborhood. They have a huge jungle gym for the bigger kids, a bunch of swings, and a smaller jungle gym for the little kids. I let Knitbaby swing on the baby swing for awhile, then he gets to play on the small gym. I mean, he’s definitely bigger than most one-year-olds, so I don’t have any problem with him playing on the small gym. He can totally climb the steps, and he knows how to go down the slide. It does mean a lot of running from point A to point B for me, but I could stand to lose a few anyway, so no big deal.
Anyway, the other day we were out and about, and a family showed up with their little girl. They put her in the baby swing, and the mother sat on the park bench while the dad pushed the swing. Well, first of all, I can hear this dad talking to another dad about how old his little kid is. It seemed like idle chitchat, so I didn’t really pay attention. After a little while, I took Knitbaby over to the same park bench where this woman was sitting because that’s where I had the diaper bag and I figured he may want a snack. While he’s drinking his milk and eating some cookies he climbs up onto the bench and is just kind of playing around in a random, I’m one and I don’t care what people think of me kind of way. This woman says to me, “How old is he?” I said he is one, and she said, “But how many months.” Well, one. “Okay, but when is his birthday?” August. He’s ONE.
I’m getting a little creeped out by the interrogation at this point, and then the dad turns around and said, “How old is he?” to the woman, not even speaking to me, the mother of the specimen in question. OH, AND he was smoking a cigarette on the play-yard. Smoke all you want, just keep it away from the kids. Anyway, I had it at this point. I mean, please! I am so tired of making apologies that my kid is so much bigger than other kids! I’m proud of the fact that he is so athletic, and he’s going to be big. He just is. Give me a break with this. I’m so sick of telling other parents, “Well, his dad is 6’8,” in some sappy, don’t hate me because my kid’s big kind of tone. Also, when I tell you how old my child is, don’t ask for his birthday like I’m lying to you or something. I don’t even know you! I have nothing to prove to you, mmkay?
Whatever, I’m just fed the fuck up with the playground politics bullshit.