If I spoke that is about all that would come out. Or the wa–wa nonsense talk that comes from the adults in the Peanuts cartoons.
Apparently, I was a well-behaved child. But… my God you could whine, says my mother. I was very particular about how to make a proper cheese sandwich. I did not like to leave the swingset. I refused to stand on long lines.
Nothing much has changed.
I live in a neighborhood full of children. When I walk to the subway they crowd the sidewalks on their wobbling scooters, spill out of yellow schoolbuses, run when they’re supposed to be walking.
Always, there is one little girl standing at the top of the steps, dragging a too-heavy backpack, sun stinging her eyes, hair in a wild tangle at her waist. And she’s so ridiculously dramatic. The frivolous girl in a period piece. The one who is in constant need of smelling salts. Wait for me. She always cries. Whhhhy will no one waaaaait for me? Puhlease somebody just waaaait for me.
I hear ya, kid. Lately, I can’t catch up to anybody or anything. I can’t quite seem to get there.