I believe the children are our future
Somewhere around Darien on my ride back into the city from New Haven today, a mother and two boys got on the train. The mother had that shade of status blond that basically advertises that she has the loot to get her roots done every two weeks so thank you very much and fuck you peasants.
Somewhere around Greenwich, this mother became unhappy with something her boys were doing, and proceeded to shrilly scold them for the remaining forty minutes of the trip. The train car was very full, and grew progressively quieter as the other passengers shushed each other in order to get a load of his nasty spectacle.
Austin. Austin. AUSTIN. CUT IT OUT. AUSTIN. JESUS. JESUS CHRIST. WHAT PART OF CUT IT OUT DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND. AUSTIN. STOP THAT. AND YOU…TANNER…TANNER YOU CUT THAT OUT. JESUS CHRIST WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU BOYS TONIGHT. AUSTIN. TANNER. JESUS. CUT IT OUT.
STOP IT.
AUSTIN.
CUT IT OUT.
TANNER.
JESUS CHRIST.
See, here’s my theory. Firsties, when you shriek at a child in that manner for even two minutes (let alone forty) and it enacts no change in behavior, you’re already sunk as a parent. Assuming your children really are just total dicks, however, there are certain stick and carrots, threats and tricks you could possibly employ to spare your fellow commuters visions of suicide.
Grabbing the offending object, for instance. Take it away and don’t give it back. Take away TV priveleges. Offer ice cream. And if all else fails, promise an apocalyptic beating if they don’t immediately desist. And then actually grab that belt or hairbrush, roll up your sleeves and get busy, if necessary (preferably in your own home).
Somehow, however, I suspect such tactics are becoming as obsolete as card catalogs and aging gracefully. Not because they’ve gone out of fashion, but because they’re simply too simple for the enlightened modern child.
Squeezed into the bitch seat between me (I had the window) and his mother, was an overweight boy of about eleven. The two boarded at Bridgeport. While the mother clicked away at her BlackBerry, the boy stared forward, soundless, into the space in front of him. His gaze broke periodically only to look down at the iPod in his doughy palms. His only movement was to lift one sausage-like finger to the touchpad every so often, to adjust whatever music it was that trickled through his noise-erasing headphones.
I spent some time contemplating whether or not to lean over and bite this boy in the face. You know. See if he’d react.
Really though, as much as I believe there’s a special place in Hell for both of these mothers, I’m not sure what a parent can do. At this point, “go to your room” can’t be any threat at all, as long as there’s a cell phone, DSL connection, iPod, or other such standard issue “toys” present. “Leave your room” could possibly connote a parental declaration of war, however.
And the young are startlingly adept at modern psychological warfare. Siddown, mama…
An irate teenage daughter can do much more that write angsty hate poetry about her mother these days, you see–she can turn on her webcam and flash her taut teenage groobies for an entire army of paying perverts. Now that’s payback. Who needs an allowance when you can have subscribers.
Were we such assholes? Were our parents such assholes?
Let’s hope so. Or else we’re all kind of fucked.
