Monday, May 12, 2014

Bold + Audacious = Bodacious

Having children is considered a punishment by many, a mistake of biology by some or a burden of massive sacrificial torment to still others. Many of these folks developed these viewpoints in their own misspent youth—while stoned—also hungry and . . . sexually chipper or romantically frisky . . . or . . . oh forget it . . . The word is horny. They were high and horny. 

Our village considers children a bold blessing with eternal bodacious payoffs.

It’s true there is a price to pay, and we pay it. Happily.

We like to entertain, which means we like to talk endlessly. Food is often present. It’s also true that our conversations have their our own special rhythm because of the presence of a large number of juvenile humans in our midst. 

Conversations often follow a certain . . . pattern:

A serious minded soul tried to start a serious minded discussion as we habitually congregated in lawn chairs under the maple tree. 

“So, what about this special committee to set to rights the under secretary of the over reach party of the governmental suck ups . . .” 

A lawn chair crashed to the ground. Shrieking plus screaming stopped the conversation in its tracks as a random mother jumped to her feet, “Good God! Where did those boys find machetes? Put those down. Immediately.” 

The speaker struggled to recover, “Did she say, ‘Machetes?’ Are those machetes? I can’t remember what I was saying.”

After the random mother disarmed the rebels, yet another brave conversationalist made the attempt. “So, I was reading an article about the overrated undertaking of the top notched experts in the field of bio-repulsion and electromagnetic shock futures . . .” 

“Oh no! Stop him. Stop him. He’s going to kill the baby,” I screamed.

Several rational, highly educated grownups jumped to their feet while knocking each other out of the way as they shouted, “No. No. Don’t hit the gas. Stay right there. We’re coming. Don’t hit the gas.” 

They rushed off in a pack to prevent one soggy bottomed toddler from being mutilated by the spinning wheels of a Fisher Price lime green dune buggy, driven by another toddler sucking a binky.

And then as recently as just the other day sometime, a dear friend waxed on about the importance of becoming keen on the contemplation of the careening nexus of the world on the recent educational morass found only . . . when a child’s hysterical wail rang out.

“She’s trying to drink poison!”

Parents scrambled, looking for sources of drinkable poisons and a kid determined to test them out.

I watched the mad rush and smiled at our guest who had yet to close his mouth.

“Around here it’s all kinds of exciting,” I said, shrugging.

“It’s impossible to finish a sentence around you people before someone goes apoplectic.”

“Which makes everything all kinds of exciting. Don’t you agree?”

The sounds of bloody murder and wild hooliganism drowned out his response as a binky sucking toddler roared by in a lime green dune buggy chased by a semi-nude kid swinging a curtain rod.

And that is how our bold + audacious = bodacious village spends its time in the Florida sun under the maple tree. Frankly, I find the rest of the world faintly boring. There’s hardly ever any machete wielding five year olds and the grownups NEVER STOP TALKING. 

Linda (Drop the Machete) Zern 

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