The Finger

I am becoming my mother. It's not really a bad thing. She's got excellent organizational skills and a love for food that I can admire. But I am becoming increasingly aware that even though we haven't lived in the same zip code in over sixteen a lot of years, I find her mannerisms coming out in my expressions, my stance, and even when I just say "hmmph."  This was brought to my attention last weekend at the park.

My little family and I were at the toddler park down the street from our house. It's surrounded by a cute faux wrought iron fence. (Strong enough to keep the gators out and the wee ones in.)  There were 6 bikes and one pink hot wheels scattered on the grass by the fence.  In the small field between the park and the next house, the owners of the bikes were playing and running. I was happy to see them playing away from the jungle gym since they were older and playing a little rough.

After about 20 minutes I spy the Schwinn Bike Gang throwing rocks at each other. I decide to keep my eye on them because my little brood were in tow and I am nothing if not a fierce protector of my Cub and Taz. One of the gang broke off and started toward the fenced area. He was not wielding any rocks or sticks or mulch, so I kept my eye on the blond kid who was following him.

Sure enough, Blondy rockets something toward his friend.  I bark out something about rocks and little kids. He yells something about it being harmless mulch. I yell something back about not being blind. Then I turn to the weaponless kid and start barking at him. Protective momma fire burning from my eyes. He claims innocence and I say something about warning his friends.

Shortly thereafter, the SB Gang hopped on their bikes and rode off to the next park. On their way into the sunset, I saw Blondy spit on the wee-est one peddling the hot wheels. I vowed to never allow The Taz to run with bikers, Schwinn or otherwise. When they were finally gone, My Chef came up to me and said something about me being a mother hen and his being impressed with my giving them "the finger."

Suddenly I had flashbacks to my brother and I getting scolded by our mother. She could be halfway across the house and WHAM her finger was shaking right in your face. It was millimeters away from poking us in the chest or nose or forehead. It was there punctuating the seriousness of her words. And man, was it long. It may have just appeared longer than the average pointer finger because it was like looking down the barrel of a loaded gun when it was pointing at you.  Either way, you knew you were in real trouble if you got the finger.