Does the Bumper Bonnet come in adult sizes?

At the playground this morning, Henry head-butted me, without warning or provocation, smack dab in the mouth. I was holding him (obviously; he’s not that tall yet) and chatting with an acquaintance, so when I first felt the impact I thought someone had playfully chucked a bowling ball at my teeth. Before I could have a second thought, tears began springing from my eyes; Henry was also bawling (why did her hard teeth hurt me like that?) and the acquaintance stared and asked, “Why is your face wet?” and I said, “Those are called tears,” and she said, “You hu-mans are so complicated,” and with that she glided away on her titanium casters and Henry and I sobbed all the way back to our apartment where we ate cream cheese and pumpkin spread on toast and felt a little better.

Now for some related trivia:

1. My acquaintance is not really a robot! She has feet, not casters.

2. I always want to write the past tense of “glide” as “glid.” Why isn’t that right? Has anyone looked into this?

3. Henry has hit me way harder than this before. His head-buttings have caused facial bruising and even a (slightly) bloody nose. Yet after those brutal assaults, I remained tear-free. I cry at everything else, though.

4. Once I cried at a tampon commercial.

5. A girl was trying out for the cheerleading squad, and she was sure she wouldn’t get in, but then—she did! I’m not sure how it related to tampons.

If there's a better word than "rictus," I don't know it.

A couple of days ago Henry and I were making our way into our apartment building when we ran into one of our upstairs neighbors. We don’t know this woman very well. She doesn’t really speak English. We see her maybe once every few months when we’re entering or exiting our apartment. She and her family are always very sweet to us, exclaiming over the baby, etc.

So on this day, she opened the door for me as I tore several muscles trying to lug Henry’s stroller up the stairs, and she shouted, “I have present!” and skipped up the stairs to her apartment. Dear god, I thought. She’s given us some things for Henry before, and none of it was anything we could use. Of course it’s nice that she’s giving Henry gifts, but we have a square-footage-challenged apartment, and the last thing we need is more clutter. We’re perfectly capable of collecting our own junk, thank you—we don’t need someone else’s.

And then she came down the stairs. And she was holding--oh, people. How I wish you could have seen. She was holding an enormous plastic swan.

Not only was it enormous. And plastic. But it was black with filth. This was one dirty, dirty swan.

“Happy Easter!” she shouted (she kind of shouts everything, actually) and plonked this thing down in front of me. And, oh god. It had stuff inside it.

Highlights of the enclosed items: a wrinkled, dirty kite featuring some kind of green sea monster. A moldering pre-teen girl’s bathing suit. An unidentifiable animal made of glued-together pom-poms, wearing a chef’s hat, with a tag on it that reads “Buono Appetito!” A small, chipped, plastic seal dressed as a clown, a ball balanced on its nose. A red tambourine with a decal on it featuring some ‘70s-fashioned rocking teens (floating above their heads are the words “Super Action Sound Band!” I love this, actually. Whatever grisly fate awaits the rest of these items, the tambourine's staying). And, finally, blue fuzzy slippers (covered in brown stains) with misshapen Cookie-Monster heads attached to the toes. It’s clearly not the authentic Cookie Monster (I call him “Biscuit Beast.” He lives on “Tahini Avenue.”). His mouths are agape in a rictus of agony.

All of these items, I should mention, reek of...something. Mothballs, maybe, or death. It's not clear to me.

She presented us with the trash-filled grimy swan and then got down on one knee and shrieked at Henry, “Give me hug!” He ran away, screaming. Well, wouldn’t you? This is unusual behavior for Henry, who usually bats his eyelashes at even the kookiest, most garbage-festooned street people, but even he was not able to overlook her particular brand of crazy. “He’s a little tired,” I said, and she said, “I give candy!” and before I even knew it she had grabbed his hand and put something in it. Luckily he was too terrified to hold onto the mystery item, and it fell to the ground. It was a plastic-wrapped hard candy, the size of a large grape—a watermelon-flavored hard candy with gum inside it, to be exact. Is she trying to kill my kid? How did her son live past 3? And how do you throw away a giant plastic swan without your (possibly insane, probably homicidal) upstairs neighbor noticing?

The following post should be blamed on bone-crushing, soul-destroying fatigue.

Dear men,

It’s been a long while since I’ve been catcalled, wolf-whistled, leered at, been given the ol’ creepy-murmur-in-the-ear, or subjected to the unwanted viewing of what should be very, very private behavior.

What gives?

I know it’s winter, and it’s not easy to lurk outdoors, waiting for a worthy female to pass your way. It’s hard to unbutton and unzip the many not-quite-clean layers, should someone happening by warrant exposure of your privates. But what about the comment shared from a passing van? The obscene gesturing in the vegetable aisle of the supermarket? The suggestive use of a coffee stirrer in the coffee shop? These are all viable cold-weather options. Get creative!

Is it the kid? It’s the kid, isn’t it. Look, he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s way more interested in making tthhhhttthhthbt noises at the planes overhead than what that unusual-smelling man is saying to Mommy. Besides, I saw some of you making eyes at the young nanny lifting her ward from his stroller outside Joe’s Pizza. While it’s true that her booty did, in fact, say pow, I don’t see why mine can’t be afforded the same courtesy. I had a heavy coat on—lined with Thinsulate. You are not aware, no doubt, of how Thinsulate can muffle the booty as it pows and bams and does what the very, very hot booties do. So, you see. Until the weather improves, you’re going to have to take it on faith that I do, in fact, shake that ass.

I may be a teensy bit unwashed and, no, I’m not wearing any makeup; yes, those are cottage cheese curds nestled in my hair, and yep, that’s “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” I’m singing to my shrieking child. Not very sexy, I know. So simply avert your eyes and make with the politically incorrect comments, already. You provide the commentary, I'll give you the finger, and balance will be restored. I thank you.

Babies love coffee, and moms love putting them near it.

There's this place? It's called Tea Lounge. It’s what it sounds like. People go there. And the people, they bring their kids. And babies. Kids and babies. The place is crammed full of kids and babies. Screaming, mewling children. You would think that in Park Slope, no one works, and no one has anywhere else to go with their children. And everyone is desperate for scones and four-dollar cappuccinos. So they pack up the kids, and head out for Tea Lounge. Which, look, in theory, this should be fine. Tea Lounge is big. Tea Lounge can handle the crowds. Tea Lounge probably loves all these people, with their fine children and their pretty money.

But the people, they bring their children, and they pack lunches for them, and they bring toys, and they spread out all over the place, and you know what? Then it’s no longer a café. Then it’s a day care center. Babies are crawling, toddlers are toddling, while childless adults are trying to get to their seats, balancing teetering china cups of steaming coffee.

People. Your children. Remember them? Look up from your lattes.

Then the after-school crowd comes in. Young kids, let’s say, 7-10. (Preteens? Wait, they call them “tweens” now! This is cute! Okay! Tweens!) They arrive with their parents in tow—parents who appear to be ready to vomit with exhaustion. (But why can’t they go home? Are their homes being used as porn sets until 5 p.m.? I bet that’s it. I bet their homes are being used for the production of hardcore pornography.) The parents collapse on chairs. The kids run shrieking in circles, hot-chocolate in hand and smeared into hair. They tell each other hilarious jokes, which cause them to fling their bodies throughout space, while they yawp with joy. Then they scream their hilarious jokes at their parents, who are sitting many feet away from them, smiling into space. I’ve seen children sprawled out in high-traffic areas, playing with Legos. Legos. They can’t play with their Legos at home? Perhaps they can play with the nice gaffer from the porn set. I bet the gaffer is nice. Gaffers are always nice.

Recently I was there with Henry. (Yes, I bring my child there. I am a hypocrite, sure, but at least I don’t let him run around.) Two bohemian-type (read: grubby) children, a girl and a boy, run up to Henry. Henry stares at them. I smile at the kids. The girl rubs one paw across Henry’s face. I swear she leaves a smudge. Henry is taken aback for a moment, then recovers and goes back to his Cheerios. The girl says to me, “He’s a baby!” I look at her parents, who are sitting (defeated, cringing) a few feet away. They smile ruefully in my direction. The boy is now inserting a finger into Henry’s mouth, like he’s a doll. For once I hope Henry bites someone. “Um, honey?” I say, trying not to slap the kid’s hand out of my son’s maw, “He has a cold, and I wouldn’t watch you to catch it. Also he doesn’t like that. Yeah, that. He doesn’t like it.” Except he does like it; Henry loves the poop-infested hand of this strange child in his mouth. He’s snorting with laughter while this kid fishes around in Henry’s mouth, and the girl and the boy are yukking it up, taking turns with the World of Discovery that is my child’s orifice and saying things like, “Ew, wet Cheerios in there.” I’m looking at the parents and, very loudly and directly, saying, “Um! Um! Um!” Which is so clear! This so clearly communicates, “Please stop your horrible children from fishing around in my child’s mouth!” But the parents, they don’t speak this language. They seem to find their children’s inquisitiveness charming. So they sit there. This makes me sad.

People. If it’s so difficult to keep your children in check, you should stay home, even if there are strangers performing illicit acts on your soapstone countertops. Really, this is common sense.