A letter to the mother of the dysfunctional child who ruined my afternoon doggy walk...

Dear White Trash Mother,

Who am I to judge you? We live in the same neighbourhood, but obviously, we live in different worlds.

I had come home from meeting the Prairie Queen at school for a semi-productive, somewhat focused discussion and planning session for our upcoming assignment. It must have been a pretty good session because we managed to inspire only one judgemental eyebrow-raise from the Disgruntled, Displaced Brit. Although we encountered the usual spazzy unfocused-ness, we managed to work through the joint scattered mental states to formulate something of a plan, which was more than we had hoped to achieve.

On the way home, I stopped for a peruse at Chapters and a Starbuck's bev of which, I am happy to say, I am over. I think that I've finally trained myself off the frappucinos. Hooray...maybe I've finally shaken the grip of the sugar addiction.

With that happy realization, I went home and decided to take the sweet puppy on a second, bonus walk. Who could resist this face?
So I picked up my non-iPod MP3 player (my techno-inferiority just reared its ugly head), and wrestled the overly happy pup into his leash for a sunny afternoon walk.

We had made our way around the neighbourhood and got to your street, White Trash Mother. I should have known to steer clear, but the persuasively cute dog wanted to check out your street. He hadn't covered it this morning, so naturally, it had to be covered this afternoon. But I could see you, your white trash boyfriend/husband/babydaddy/father just a few houses up the street, playing with your todler in the front yard of the house in which you rent a basement suite (I'm making a sweeping generalization/assumption here, so sue me).

Instead of heeding my inner warning signals, I decided that because I had my MP3 player on, I could ignore any dysfunctional interaction I might overhear between you and the guy. But by the time I got up to your little family, your todler missed the ball you all were tossing around, and it rolled down the slope of the yard. His legs were too little for him to keep up as he chased the ball down the slope and under your boyfriend's crappy old pickup. Your kid stopped on the sidewalk right in front of me and started to screech so loudly and with such force that he nearly knocked himself off his own feet. My pitifil MP3 player was no match to his lung-power (obviously he's had practice), and his screech ripped through my head like a gunshot. Predictably, you gave me the weary smile of the exasperated mother. I did not return the look. You see, from where I was, I could see the tiny little gold ring that pierced your todler's ear. That told me that you cared enough to get his ear pierced, but not enough to teach him what reasonable behaviour is. I can imagine what he's like in a restaurant when he doesn't get his chicken nuggets right away, or he can't get Coke instead of Pepsi, or you won't buy him the stupid cheap little toy that he wants.

I cringed at the familiarity of the situation. I cringed at what the future holds for your pierced, piercing screamer. And I cringed for world.

And then my dog shat in the yard, and I didn't bother to pick it up. You and your boyfriend were too busy crawling around trying to reach the ball under his pickup...you didn't notice. And it made me feel just a little better.

But who am I kidding? I'll probably go back tomorrow and pick up the dog shit, because that's the way my mother raised me. Stupid conscience.