How We Do It, Part XXXII in a Series: Inappropriate Parenting

Oliver and I took a walk down La Brea to the Goodwill Store. I pushed Sophie, and Oliver rode his skateboard. It was abominably hot. I hate Goodwill stores, but I have grown a boy inside my belly who not only hates to read but lives to go through junk and then collect it. We wandered through the Goodwill, and I effectively persuaded Oliver not to purchase a photo of  Mike Piazza, the former Dodgers player who my older son later claimed took drugs. The photo cost $10 which I told Oliver was way too high for such a thing, and even though he wanted to buy it with his money that he'd earned by setting up and selling the world's best lemonade yesterday (a shocking $83 take!), I told him, no, that's not a smart purchase, at all. For once in his short dozen years on the planet, he listened to me, but he also left the store considerably more surly than when we entered, and since it was still boiling hot outside, and Sophie was humming in her wheelchair, crossing and uncrossing her legs in what appeared to be discomfort as well as emanating a highly suspicious smell, I, too, felt grumpy. When we rolled past the giant plate glass window of a fabric store, behind which sat two plump girls sitting on a couch in air-conditioned splendor, the glass nearly shattered from their baleful stares at Sophie in her wheelchair. I mouthed at them to STOP STARING in my sternest voice, and Oliver looked at me and said that he felt like giving them the finger and I said, Go ahead, and he looked at me and I looked forward so I didn't see whether he'd taken me up on it.

Sometimes you've just got to give in, Mom, Oliver said.

And I agreed.

Crows in Bikinis

The other day when I wrote about taking Sophie to the beach I forgot to tell you about the little girl and boy who twirled merrily around a stand of rental surfboards and bicycles, the girl lifting her dress so her pink underwear showed, the boy stiff and uncoordinated, stomping as he circled. I forgot to tell you how I sat at a table at a cafe with Sophie in her wheelchair and fed her french fries. The twirling girl and boy tripped over toward us and when they saw Sophie, they stopped and stood, stock still and stared. Alliteration aside, they stared. And stared. Their eyes big. Their mother stood a few steps away, waiting in line to order, her eyes on her twirlers, their eyes on Sophie. Her eyes saw their eyes, yet they stared and she stood. Silent. I widened my eyes and smiled, said hello, encouraging, and they stared, still. Their mother, silent. I felt my eyes grow fearful and flat. They twirled away, their mother a crow in a black bikini , and I watched them as they crossed the sand, their grotesque dance, she hopped, they circled. They never looked back.

Lunch with Sophie and a Business Idea

Huevo Estrellado

Sophie and I walked up to the big outdoor mall in our neighborhood, bought some tee-shirts for her at Nordstrom, went to the bookstore to buy a copy of The Boy in the Moon for The Husband and ate lunch at a little Spanish tapas bar. We had Tortilla Espanola (Spanish omelet with potatoes and onion) and Huevo Estrellado (two eggs fried with jamon serrano on top of french fries). We then walked back through the mall and home.  There's a certain bravado one must fake when making one's way through crowds with a handicapped child. I keep a pleasant smile on my face and hope that my eyes express a variety of thoughts, according to the facial expressions of those who are staring. For the clearly uncomfortable but probably perfectly nice there's my don't worry, we're actually fine living like this and yes, you should be glad that your daughter did not begin seizing when she was three months old for no apparent reason look. For the quick look and then averted gaze with a concomitant trot around us, there's my yes, yes, run, run as fast as you can, I won't catch you, little gingerbread man look. For the soulful stare there's my she is beautiful, isn't she, and thank you for noticing look. For the outright rude stare that goes on entirely too long, especially given that the starer is an adolescent girl who should know better, there's my you know what, you little bitch? You're actually as awkward looking if not more so than she is completely unapologetically and uncharitable stare-you-right-down look.

I did have what I think is a brilliant idea, though -- a discreet camera tucked onto Sophie's person somewhere to record the various faces and stares. It could be called The Handicapped Stare Steadi-Cam.