Zero Tolerance

I've referred to this August as the month of Nothing Official to Do, and the truth is, I can't decide if I like it or hate it. On the one hand, I'm spending a lot of time with my kids, quality time, face-time - not one-hand-on-the-keyboard-one-hand-one-the-stove-one-hand-in-a-diaper time. Nowadays, when I change a diaper, that's all I do. And when I read my kids a book, that's all I do too.

Kammie, from Passion Meets Purpose, writes about enjoying the summer in her post called "Balanced Living or the Teeter-Totter Effect," about being like a kid again, and while I can't claim to be quite there yet, it's a goal of mine. Not to feel like hanging out at the park or beach on a weekday is the kind of behavior only excusable when you are a kid.

I know it might sound a little like I'm a repentant Worst Mom in the World bragging about being as focused and in the moment as most of my friends always are with their children. I'm not proud of myself - after all, with so much togetherness comes that much more interaction of the less-appealing kind, like tantrums and time-outs and migraine-inducing car rides and loss of patience. Like the moments when you question why you can't keep your cool as a parent and what that says about you.

However. I'm pleased to announce that my protective maternal instincts ARE all riled up, the result, perhaps, of lugging the boys into public places and large crowds day after day of the last few weeks. I've become hyper-aware of the dangers unique to each new locale, and then can't really relax until I've left for home. No matter how much fun the kids are having. I know - lucky me.

It's funny because I can now recognize what seems to be my number one public-place concern, and it's not something I'd ever thought much about before having children: namely, junkies and needles.

When I was in high school, I didn't do much rebelling. I liked music, went to lots of concerts, wore a lot of hideous, grungy, thrift-store clothes and hemp necklaces, and plenty of my friends did drugs, but I never tried a thing. Still haven't. I'm a control freak, so the thought of being out of my element never looked romantic to me in the least. Plus, when you hang out with people who are high, and you're completely sober, you see how dumb they look and act. It wasn't a draw.

But I wasn't judgmental, and I let my friends do what they want, save for the occasional deeeeeply-adolescent interventions about how they should really quit. I wasn't really uncomfortable around the presence of a little pot, which was pretty much all anyone was doing.

Now, though, when I'm with my kids, and I see someone obviously under the influence - or, heaven forbid, I see the actual drugs themselves - say, sharing the same COUNTRY as us, I freak out. I gather the boys close and can't focus on anything except the threat. The threat of what? Namely, discarded needles. Of disease.

A few weeks ago, I took the boys to a local park with my sisters-in-law. It wasn't the park we usually go to, but seemed like a nice enough place nevertheless. And it wasn't that crowded, which was nice (read: not a good sign). I soon noticed some men strewn about the grass around the restrooms, in various unnatural stances, not speaking to one another but occasionally mumbling to themselves. And trembling. And looking generally like they couldn't control the movements of their heads.

When Elan started running in their direction, chasing a ball, I ordered him to stop in a tone normally reserved for officers chasing murder suspects: "FREEZE. DON'T MOVE AN INCH. TURN, LOOK AT ME, AND SLOWLY WALK TOWARDS ME. DON'T MAKE ANY SUDDEN MOVES."

At the sound of my voice, the first junkie looked up at me, met my eyes momentarily, before drifting lazily back into his trip.

"Did you hear about the park where a kid recently found a needle?" My sister-in-law whispered to me. I hadn't. But suddenly, I saw potential needles everywhere I looked. My kids played with other children on the playground, supervised by my husband's youngest sister, eleven years old. And I decided to call the police.

I called the non-emergency line, and reported the presence of men who were clearly under the influence of narcotics at a children's playground. I confessed my fear of needles. I stated in what I hope sounded like a firm, non-nonsense, maternal voice, that these guys had no business hanging out near kids, in the middle of the day.

"Did you actually see the narcotics, Ma'am?" The officer on the phone asked. At the word "narcotics," my stomach did a mini-flip. I'd never called the police before and it sounded very serious. I was reminded of all the recent ads warning against wasting the time of the LAPD with false alarms, and got nervous. What if I was wrong about the guys, about the narcotics? Would I get in trouble? Could I get arrested?

I decided to stand my ground. "No, I didn't see the actual narcotics. But I know enough to be able to recognize when someone 'isn't quite right.'" I didn't tell him I'd lived in New York, had taken the Q-line subway for four years. He didn't seem like he'd be all that impressed with my Bachelor's degree in "street."

Long story short, a police van eventually drove straight into the middle of the park, questioned and patted down my surprised friends, and left with them in the backseat. When the van first pulled up, the other mothers clamored forward curiously for a better look. I shielded my face, grabbed my family, and made like a bat out of hell.

All I can say is I never thought I'd be one to spend an average Tuesday getting some probably-harmless losers arrested. Parenthood takes goody-two-shoes to a new level.

Yesterday, my mom and I took the boys to Venice Beach. We didn't actually intend to go there, ended up in Venice by accident after getting lost in Santa Monica, but I wasn't disappointed because I had good memories of Venice Beach. I'd last gone when I was twelve, visiting my aunt and uncle who lived in LA(!). In retrospect, I also came home from that trip wearing bright-red, Esprit-brand, canvas, Converse-knockoff hightops, so maybe I shouldn't place the experience on such a pedestal. The details you remember once it's too late.

Anyway, Venice Beach today is, simply put, some scary shit. There were a few tourists on tandem bikes, but mainly the boardwalk exploded with some of the creepiest, high-as-a-kite-on-definitely-more-than-pot, I'm-not-sure-you-can-call-them-people on the planet. They were everywhere. There was no sign of the bohemian but clean shops and things to do I remembered from thirteen years ago. I don't know if the place has changed, or if we just weren't far enough South, but it wasn't fun.

We got off the boardwalk and spent time on the beach, but my mother and I couldn't stop wondering what, exactly, we might contract if we stepped barefoot on an unfortunate patch of sand. While I might have felt more secure had I been walking around with just Y, all I knew yesterday was that I didn't want my kids sharing the same pavement with anybody I saw. Or the same planet, really. We left fairly quickly, had lunch at a Santa Monica Coffee Bean, a sub-par substitute for an old-fashioned shower.

They say you get more fearful, or at least less tolerant of feeling afraid, as you get older (and by "they" I mean "my mom," who said exactly that yesterday). I used to ride all the roller coasters, dream of skydiving, jog alone in poorly-lit parts of Chicago in the middle of the night.

I don't even know who that person is anymore. The New Me, apparently, can't even go to the park without making at least one call to the cops. Maybe I should just embrace it?

Today we aren't venturing as far as Venice. We decided to do something low-key, local, like try to fly our new Superman kite at the park.

The other one, of course.