Stupid Baby

The door of the old blue house creaked open-and-closed as I strolled outside. I stared around me, taking in my surroundings, appreciating the beauty of a hot Connecticut summer day. A breeze descended upon the trees, ruffling the branches and tossing about the dead leaves that formed a distinct barrier around the green, healthy, grass of our backyard. I found myself trapped in the eye of the storm, trapped in that summer day. Excitement coursed through every tiny vein in my body as I anticipated the arrival of my best friend Michael. *vroom, vroom*

My small, damn-near emaciated, form exploded into activity and I sprinted to the gate, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jane (his older sister) before she drove-off, but instead I met crippling disappointment. “Just the mail lady” I thought. I smiled and took the mail. “Thank you see you soon”. Politeness and etiquette run deep in my family.

I collapsed in the middle-of the yard and looked up at the clouds, counting them, shaping them, remaking them, for a moment the sky became my canvas to paint upon. My eyes fell from the endless blue and landed upon a single clover, nothing special, no extra leaf to base my hopes and dreams upon, but, suddenly, the thought ran through my curious little head. “Do clovers smell? I should smell it and see.” I jumped up and balanced myself on the balls of my feet. The unimaginably green grass poked through the gaps in my toes. They tickled. I reached deep into the grass and violently yanked at the clover, ripping it from its base and roots and lifting it to eye level. Suddenly, I felt something smash into the side of my head. Hard and fast, my baby brother had come screaming and tumbling out of the house, emboldened by the driver clasped firmly in his pudgy fists, and smacked me right in the head. I tumbled to the ground and gasped for air, tears came cascading from my eyes as I began to scream. “Mommy! Mommy! Peter hit me with the antique golf club! Mommy!” I screamed, as I bolted up the stairs and into the house. I could feel a bruise already forming as my eyes continued to sting. Stars floated in front of my eyes, floated just beyond my reach, elusive and beautiful, but I ignored them in my quest for justice. Peter had to be punished, justice had to be served. I could not find my mom on the main level, so I continued my search upstairs, but I could not find her. She had disappeared completely! I needed my mommy badly and she had disappeared! “Mooooooom!!!” I screamed. No response. “Mooooooooooooooooom!!!” My high pitched 7 year-old squeal reverberated throughout the old house. “Yes Jack!?!” came the muffled reply. I ran to find her sitting in the sunroom relaxed and sipping her daily Sauvignon. “Mom! Peter took that driver from the umbrella stand and hit me right in the head!” I moaned. “I’m sure Peter did not mean to hit you in the head honey. Michael is going to be here soon for you sleepover. Go outside and play.” She replied smiling calmly.

I could not stand this incredible injustice. That stupid, pudgy, baby had beat me and I intended to receive reparations for my suffering, but my mom could not easily be convinced that Peter had meant to hit me, I accepted that truth and resolved to punish him myself. I marched outside and tackled Peter, forcing him to the ground and pushing leaves and dirt into his pudgy little face. I made sure he cried. I did not feel bad, because I perceived it as justice, due punishment for suffering imposed on others. Suddenly, I heard a car-door slam behind me and felt the strong hands of my dad pulling me off of Peter, kicking and screaming. He sat Peter and I in the sunroom, in front of omnipotent mommy, and made us talk through the incident. The result angers me to this very moment.

Peter had seen me pulling out the clover and moving it up to my face. He had, allegedly, immediately assumed that I planned on eating the clover, something he simply could not let happen. “If he eated the clover he could have dieded mommy” he claimed. He believed me to be in immediate and mortal danger so he acted, bravely, to save me from my theoretical incompetence. Thus, as is true in many criminal trials, the accused escaped from justice because of a technicality, a shoddy defence bred in the fires of stupidity.

Kids do the darndest things!