Motherly instincts are a trait women are born either with or without. Mine comes and goes in tsunamis. I can make the best bottle of warm milk west of the Mississippi but will not come within 10 feet of a soiled diaper (if my baby shower consists of any diapers with variants of melted chocolate bars, you’re shunned for life). I’ll happily babysit your rambunctious, spoiled pre-teen, but your precious child who just has “a lot of energy” split his chin open reaching for the ice cream on the top shelf? This isn’t show and tell, kid. Sarah’s watching SVU.
Everyone can agree: there is a universal appreciation for an adorable child. Every part of their person is miniature and pudgy and fun to dress up. To say it’s any different from a pug or miniature toy horse would be a complete lie.
My friend and I were leaving a concert in Central Park one evening. First of all, finding your way out of that park is like the blind leading the blind in a cornfield maze. Add the late-night darkness factor and you’ll want to cross your fingers that you didn’t use the last of your pepper spray because you were testing its sneezability factor.
We’re roaming the upper east side, trying to find a place to eat while reminiscing how just a short while ago we bore witness to middle-aged women who dressed and danced in such a way that should not have been exposed to natural light after 1964.
On the otherwise empty street between Park and Lexington Avenues, a cab not more than 10 feet away pulls over to let a passenger out. I can’t help but watch because 1. The street was deserted and 2. This little girl was riding a cab by herself. I watch as she launched herself out of the backseat so as to land safely on the curb. Part of me really wanted to run up and hug her and tell her everything will be okay, I’ll help her find her way home.
“Ugh look how CUTE she is! That little girl is SO adorab—oh. Oh my god, she’s a midget.”
We momentarily locked eyes, though the spark just wasn’t there. Unsure of my next move, I opted for a pathetically apologetic smile and a wave that Miss America would have spat at. Meanwhile, my friend who’s convulsing on the side of the road was not in any way aiding the situation.
So….apology not accepted?
If caring is so wrong, then I don’t want to be right, dammit.