Pervert

Yesterday another mother and I were at the park when our sons decided to explore the men's room.  We had been yawning on park benches just moments before, languidly watching our children jump off the tops of slides and balance along five-foot-tall rock walls; but the moment our sons disappeared into the recesses of Pedophileville, we mothers were off like rockets.


I dragged Mr. C from the bathroom and distracted him with permission to throw playground bark, but the other mother had less luck.  Her eight-year-old decided he actually needed to use the bathroom, so she staunchly positioned herself at the open bathroom door.    The fact that an adult male came in and entered a stall did not deter her.  She simply said, "Sorry, Dude, but I'm not leaving my son in here alone with you."    Dude was surprisingly understanding.

"Isn't it funny," I asked her later, "that we automatically assume any male in the bathroom is a sexual predator?  But, if it were one of our husbands in there and some strange mother was guarding the door like an unofficial anti-perv Nazi, we'd be totally offended?"

"Yeah, I guess," she conceded.  "But our husbands wouldn't be so creepy."

Guess whose husband was creepy today?

Bee and I took Mr. C swimming at our gym's pool this evening.  Guess who forgot dry shorts to change back into?  Guess who was alone in the locker room with some eight-year-old boys who were discussing how they had forgotten dry shorts and underwear?  Guess who picked that time to call out, "Me, too!"?

Bee chuckled later about how silent the changing room suddenly became.  Three blond-headed boys cautiously peeked around the bank of lockers and stared at Bee with wide, wary eyes, then quickly disappeared.  I hope their mothers appreciate how fast those boys got dressed after that.

Bee came whistling out to meet me at the car, completely unaware of the psychological damage he had inflicted.

Perv.