On a bus heading for Capitol Hill the other day, riders not lost on their cell phone or hiding out with their iPod heard a disturbing thunk somewhere around Group Health.
The cause of the noise, the Thumper if you will, was a heavyset woman with her scant dark hair in curlers, half wrapped in a dirty pink scarf.
The recipient of the tough love-because the thump was the sound of a little human's head banging into the closed window he was excitedly looking out of, at a dog or a fire engine or something equally irresistible -was a young boy of no more than 5 or 6 years of age.
The kid first looked shocked, then began to sob after his loving adult caretaker said: "I ain't tellin' you to sit still again, Lamond."
On a bus heading up Queen Anne Hill only a few days earlier a woman and her little son, both dressed to the nines, had their own version of the brutal spat enacted near Group Health.
Evidently the little boy had reached for something in one of Mom's shopping bags that he'd been told to leave alone.
This time the sound was of a slap, hand to hand, not a head being thumped against unbreakable glass.
Much harder to take was the long explanation that followed the slap and was still going on three stops later when your obedient bystander departed said public conveyance.
"When Mommy tells you not to touch something, Aaron, she means it for your own good. You must obey Mommy. Do you understand?" is the short version. Don't thank me.
I may be mean-spirited but I am not cruel. Both boys looked in need of a rescue from their best friend, M-O-T-H-E-R.
At Green Lake last week a young (age 4 or 5) girl was howling piteously and begging her mommy to take her, too.
The child was on a bicycle, and the mother was on rollerblades. Two friends or aunties of the little girl were pleading with her to come off the path.
"I want to go with you, Mommy," the kid howled, literally.
Mom, looking extremely piqued, had spoken to the child and didn't deign to explain further. Instead, she launched herself, a somewhat oversized ship, on her rollerblades and left the kid howling into the wind, and into the ears of those Green Lakers who come to the water to get away from unnecessary family noises of their own.
The alleged aunties, looking almost as distressed as the squalling young'un, pulled the child off the path. By walking fast one could diminish the tykish roar of unhappiness.
Dennis Wilken is a freelance writer living in Queen Anne. He can be reached at rtjameson@nwlink.com.[[In-content Ad]]
