FairWriter

I walked into a parking lot, holding tight to my toddler’s hand. He wiggled his fingers loose. Running and giggling, as if this escape was an innocent game. He wanted me to catch him. “No! You come back here!” He misread my discipline: only a playful tactic assuring his capture. He did not listen. He ran behind a parked car, shielding his precious face. I caught up to him, smacked his little hand, told him to never run in a parking lot again! An old lady had observed the scene. She spoke, “My, my! That little man must exhaust his mommy.” I didn’t respond to her casual dismissal of the rescue that just took place. Her inability to see the relief flooding my blood. How she shamed my little gem, suggesting that his life exhausts mine. How could his little legs ever outrun mine? This old lady is all the men who remained with their families until work became more important. Then they justified thei...