She Walks On Me.

You’ve seen it. The kid screaming, pitching a fit in the middle of the mall, the DMV or any box-store of choice vs. the parent, trying to keep it together. “Nothing to see here, mind your own fucking business.” The attempts to calm the child down. “I’ll buy you some candy, pick out a toy, your medication’s in the car, do you want me to make a scene?”

And you stand there watching. Thinking. “If that was my kid, I’d . . . ” What? What would you do? What could you do?

Give them the silent stare or raise a hand, pop them on the mouth, smack a wrist. Threaten them with “wait ’til we get home!” For what exactly?

Waking up two hours earlier than the alarm to screaming and crying that doesn’t require a bottle or diaper change. How much longer can that go on for?

How many times can you repeat the Serenity prayer until desperation takes hold? It’s not even the alcohol that’s the real problem. The problem is you.

It’s getting to be too much.

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