gremlins

So we're in Target, and I can hear a small child crying/growling. The sounds grows in volume as the father, with two kids in tow, is saying "I'm sorry but no" while the angriest 3 year old ever - eyes bulging out of head, his little turnip red face exploding out of his Christmas sweater - is being pushed slowly away from the toy section. His little brother joins in, their crying providing a sick-sad harmony to their Christmas carol. "I want it Dad" he says in a voice that should only be coming out of Linda Blair's possessed body. I am honestly scared.

"I would kill them" I say to Gina.

* * * * *

Our soccer game is finished, and I've crossed the field to the spectator area before I realise that I'm missing my ball. I run back around the outside of the indoor soccer field and find my ball near the visitors' bench. I also find a baby in a car seat.

"Babysitting too?" I ask the lone substitute.

"It's not mine!" he says.

There's no one else standing here.

Mom must be playing goalie, some 50 yards away, on the other side of the wall.

And while I definitely think she's in the wrong, I almost can't blame her.

* * * * *

Kids scare the hell out of me. They're not accidents waiting to happen, they're accidents bound to happen. Deserved accidents that you asked for. Time bombs with defective and unpredictable clocks, tied to your wrist. A curse without a witchdoctor.

Even writing about them makes me nervous.