Our townhouse was next to a playground.

Why, when we were first looking at it, I had such a hard time processing all the events that are encapsulated in that sentence, prior to CHOOSING to live next to a playground, I cannot comment on.

Perhaps I was stupidly gee-gawing around the INSIDE of the bedroom (would you look at all the fucking space in that built-in dresser?), with no thought whatsoever to the OUTSIDE of the place.

Perhaps that day we visited the townhouse was a ProD day, or a statutory holiday, or a zombie apocalypse.

I cannot be sure.

What I am fucking certain of – NOW – is that for a significant amount of time each day, there are screaming children in the playground.





(Yes, Pollyanna, they ARE gone by nightfall. Shut up.)

Let me state here that I love children.

(with some fava beans and a nice Chianti)

But seriously. I have two of my own. They’re quite lovely.

What I take umbrage with is the SCREAMING. Like they’re being kidnapped. Or murdered. They never appear to be gleeful, mirthful gurgles of joy. They are the sounds that make my cavewoman instincts immediately perk up.

[There trouble out there. Brontosaurus? Where my club?]

So, mothers (and more likely daycare workers and nannies) – when your little darling SCREAMS in that fucking adorable, blood-curdling way, I can’t help but think they ARE being murderered. Or kidnapped.

And where are you, you guileless parent, when all these nefarious acts are being undertaken?





Now I’m no expert, but I can’t help but wonder what would happen if you actually took the time to pay attention to your child, rather than checking Instagram for the zillionith time (transparency here – I do check IG almost that often, but my children are grown and hopefully not screaming in a playground somewhere), or texting to another mom:

OMFG. The kids at the park are SO LOUD today. What is wrong with them? WHO is even looking after them? HMFL.

Foul-mouthed flaneur. Story-teller. Maker. Professional contrarian.

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