A child at the playground yesterday yelled “Hey girl!” I assumed she was speaking to my four year old daughter; I looked up to smile. She established eye contact with me and said “Yeah you, girl!”
Realizing that she was speaking to me, I replied “What’s up?”
She said “I don’t have any friends.”
I retorted “I’m sure that’s not true.”
She slid down the poll that separated us, her above, me and my daughter below.
The child was about 7 years old with two long brown braids and sweet big brown eyes. Her white ruffled tee shirt framed a large brown wooden cross that she wore tied by a piece of twine around her neck.
The girl, now at my feet, looked up at me and said with a smile “I killed my father. Jesus made me do it.”
Startled, I said to my daughter “Go play with your father.”
I turned to look at the child. “I don’t think that’s a good thing to say,” I said while scanning for a parent or guardian, but I could not distinguish which adult she belonged to.
As if reading my mind, the child said “My father is that ugly guy on the phone.”
I saw a completely fine looking man, glued to his cellphone, walking in and out of the playground.
“I am going to go to space and become a vampire. When I come back, I’m going to kill my father,” she said, getting my attention.
“That’s not a nice thing to say,” wondering what my responsibility was as an adult in this situation.
I looked over at my own child, playing happily with a five year old she met 30 seconds ago.
My responsibility was towards her, my own kid.
I turned to the patricide-planning child, who was brandishing a sharp metal gardening spade that she must have conjured out of thin air with her devil powers. She yelled into my face “Come to the garden with me, girl!”
To which I said “I need to watch her,” motioning towards my little one.
The child said “Leave her with your dad.”
It took me a moment.
There I am, a 44 year old mother confused for being a kid by another kid.
“That’s my husband!” I laugh.
The girl’s eyes changed to disinterest, and she ran to stab at a patch of dirt.
I turned to my husband, delighted that he had been confused for my father while knowing full well that I do not look like an actual child.
I am going to look at this from a couple of angles.
I need to admit that this is partly a humble brag; it delights me that I was confused for a child. In reality, I do look my age, or thereabouts, and so does my husband. We may both err on the side of spring chickens, and he would never be mistaken for my father.
I think what this child observed was my silliness. Maybe the adults in her life aren’t silly; therefore, I must be a child.
I would be remiss to not mention my concern for this child and her dark fantasies. The wearing of the cross and her mentioning Jesus only hardens my view that religion does more harm than good. But I do not want to pass judgment on her family; the child seemed happy and healthy. I wish for her continued health and happiness with a pinch more silliness and less damnation.
Amen.
