I woke up bright and bleary this morning (we shall not discuss the leaking, mmkay?) just in time to take Alex to the doctor. He has a rash. No, not a gross grody one, simple childhood excema.
This is not the interesting part of the story.
After we left, cortisone prescription in hand, I decided to reward myself for shoving stuff up my cooter with some Dunkin’ Donuts. Dunkin’ Donuts is possibly my favorite thing on the planet and for no apparent reason, we haven’t had it in ages. Probably because coffee makes me nauseous.
This is also not the interesting part of the story.
As I whipped my car around to the main street, where glorious Dunkin’ Donuts is located, I noticed that the KFC was out of business. This isn’t terribly surprising, as St. Charles isn’t known for loving fried chicken. Sadly.
Again, not very interesting.
When I pulled up to the stop sign, a two or three year old girl nearly darted in front of my car. I stopped, put the car in park and looked around for her parents. Not an intersection one would like a wee child roaming around in as it’s pretty fucking dangerous.
This is the interesting part of the story.
I saw another woman in a car trying to talk to this child, so I hopped out of my car to make sure that the child remained at least out of the road. Good, I thought, that lady must have that child. What was she THINKING letting a kiddo roam about here?
“Is this your child?” I bellowed to her.
“Nope.” She said as she joined me and Alex in the abandoned parking lot.
Years of little boys has made me perpetually nervous of little girls, but I looked at this one in her pretty Sunday dress and she melted my blackened heart a bit.
“Hola bebe,” I said to her, saying the first and last of my entire Spanish vocabulary that’s suitable for kids. I can say “You have small balls,” “More cheese, please,” and my favorite “Fuck your fucking mother, asshole” but save from screaming out colors at her (Rojo! VERDE!) my conversational Spanish is pathetic.
The lady and I looked at each other and looked around noticing a decided lack of concerned parents running out toward this child. I cannot stress enough how this is NOT the place a child should walk ALONE.
“We should call the police,” she suggested. I agreed, sadly. I’d wanted to just return this obviously well-loved child to her home and have my bagel and coffee without a side of remorse. I knew the police would probably give her to DCFS to sort out who she is.
We all sat down on the pavement waiting for the police to come. “GATO!” I nearly shrieked, remembering the word for cat. This kid–even at 2–was bound to think I was the Village Idiot. “Gato,” she replied, looking around for a cat.
Sure enough, the police showed up (there’s not much to do out here but bust underage smokers) and took my new wee friend to DCFS where they could locate her family for her. I felt terrible leaving her, maybe it’s the added progesterone, maybe it’s that I’m getting soft in my old age, or maybe I just felt maternal toward a child that was not my own. My heart is sad for her, and I hope that her family does report her missing and isn’t afraid of being deported in the process.
What’s the weirdest thing YOU’VE found on the side of the road?