Last week, when I went to the transit center to catch a
bus to the mall, I saw a man who supposedly was in charge of his small daughter.
Daughter looked about two years old, but she might have been younger. She wasn’t that steady on her feet. At first, she careened around, straying
away from Dad and getting in the way of people who were rushing to catch other
buses.
Our bus wasn’t scheduled to leave for 15 minutes. The bus
door was open, and the bus driver was sitting in the driver’s seat, taking a
break. Daughter soon discovered the open door.
Dad stood around grinning, presumably with pride, as the toddler awkwardly and
repeatedly climbed into the bus, struggled to her feet, turned around, and
jumped onto the sidewalk. She thought that was just great. What the bus driver
thought is not known. I thought it was an accident waiting to happen.
Later, about halfway through their trip, Dad took an over-the-counter
medicine bottle from a tote bag, opened the bottle, and knocked back a pill or two. Then
he grabbed Daughter’s sippy cup and washed down the pill(s).
While he was busy doing that, Daughter retrieved the medicine bottle
from the tote bag and proceeded to whack Dad in the head. And she wasn’t doing
it gently. She hit him five or six times, but he didn’t try to stop her. I so
wanted to say, “Well, we know who rules the roost in your house.”
But I didn’t. Instead, I started laughing. And then Dad
started laughing while Daughter continued to whack him in the head. About a
minute later Daughter stopped hitting Dad and noticed the open window. She drew
back her little arm, aimed the bottle at the window, and made an attempt to pitch the bottle into the street.
Dad grabbed the bottle just in time.
