The child's mother and I were going to be busy loading a truck for a while, so I threw myself into a routine I now have down pat.
"Hey sweetie, would you like to watch a movie?
I could see the alarm in her mother's eyes. It's all too familiar. "Please don't be Kill Bill. Please don't be Kill Bill." And then I produced my folder of kid movies and let the child choose, and then I got the portable DVD player so she could watch it where Mom could see her. Here's a coloring book and markers, too. "Mom, is it okay for her to have a juice box?"
"Yes."
Out of the liquor closet came a juice box. Organic, don't you know, because I'm tired of being yelled at.
"Why does a childless bachelor have—"
I waived her off. Too painful to talk about.
As I draped a blanket around the child, she chatted amiably about her dog, her room, and why Belle is better than Ariel and Jasmine combined. She really couldn't have been nicer—or more correct. She thanked me each step of the way, and I found myself saying something I never imagined I'd say to a child.
"You're very polite."
"Thank you. And you're very kind."
What. The hell. Is this? I thought as I staggered off, shell-shocked from the concussion of the child's sweetness. I'm not accustomed to "You're very kind." I'm accustomed to "I hate you and everyone hates you and where's my juice box, motherfucker? It better not be that organic shit again."
I approached the mother. "Your child....is the single nicest, most polite kid I've ever met in my life." I would remain confused for exactly two more seconds.
She smiled. "Yeah, she's home schooled."
Click.
So that, parents, is what your kid would be like without the corrupting influence of other little shits.