Whoever said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach got things wrong: it’s through his children.
I gave my heart to an amazing guy and he gave me his weekends with his kids. I climbed mountains to make an impression, taking untold abuse at the indoor playground in McDonald’s, bribing them with cookies and fading into an insignificant comma to make it all about them. My efforts didn’t do much to enhance my position on their popularity meter. Worse, I lived in constant trepidation of an insensitive observation about my Dystonia in a jarring reawakening of my childhood phobias. I wasn’t disappointed. While I can usually count on the politeness of adults, kids nose their way into my imperfections with a stream-of-consciousness bluntness: “You talk like your mouth’s full of marbles;” “I can’t understand anything you say…”
Packing years of therapy under my belt, I know these to be the ignorant squeals of piglets but my insistent inner child still longs for approval and dreads the punch packed by the uncensored honesty of youth. Want to know if that dress REALLY makes you look fat? Ask the kid next door!