Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Baby and beauty

Punk is a good looking kid.
She is my daughter after all.
I appreciate the compliments when we go out.
I am polite. I say thank you.
Sunday, we went out and we got mobbed. Not like scary celebrity mobbed, but still enough to make Punk cling like a spider monkey and me to think about popping a couple of dentures out.
I don't know why people feel they can touch a strangers child.
My daughter does not like her hair petted, her cheek pinched, her toes touched, her earrings pinched, or her nose tapped.
When a baby is burying her head in her mother's shoulder and said motehr is nicely trying to walk past you, do not grab my baby's hand to hold me in place. I do bite and I have not been vaccinated.
And when I am in the store and you are a grown man with no children or wife in sight, do not stop and yell about how "damned bee-oo-tiful" my baby is and follow it with another "damn!" You're lucky I didn't slap your pedophile ass into next week, then follow Lorena Bobbitt's example, buddy.
I can admire other people's children without stepping into their space. I can tell you you baby is lovely without touching.
I know the germs out there. I don't want them, and I don't want to pass them on to you. Nor will I announce that your child is beautiful in such as way it makes you want to call the police and have me listed as a sex offender.
There are limits.
There is personal spaces.
And I am reclaiming mine.
And my kids. The Man can claim his own.
Hands off me and mine, and we'll get along fine. You touch, you may pull back a stub next time, buddy.

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