Bring on the Stupid

It's far surpassed "ruthless" in these suburbs lately, what with the economy imploding, stupid politics, child sex offenders moving into the neighborhood, old scabs being picked, people I know dying...maybe I should rename this space "Morose in the Ghetto"?

Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

Today I took a break from stock market nosedives, cretinesque politicians' racist slurs, and the rest of the madness to delight in the presence of my kids - and the rest of the neighborhood. With the exception of my child sex offender neighbor - the guy with the unusual GPS ankle bracelet - my house has become a magnet for virtually all kids living within a 3/4-mile radius.

Have I mentioned how many kids live within a 3/4-mile radius of my house?

It's a lot, but you know, despite all the detritus splayed across my lawn and the wet leaves tracked throughout my living room, I would have it no other way. I love that kids feel welcome at my home, in my yard, up my trees. I love that they feel comfortable enough to sing at the top of their lungs on my front lawn, or play imaginative games on my back deck. I don't love the episodic squabbling and the screams and the mess, but I relish my bird's eye view.

I see and hear everything - from the way my kids react to confrontation to the way they belly laugh at absurdities. I witness live dramas as they unfold - a wounded baby bird is found, then "saved" by a cardboard box, then keels over and dies before a crowd. I watch as the group digs a hole and buries the bird they've named "Tweety" next to my garage. I am touched (if slightly annoyed) by the flowers from my surviving mums they've plucked and placed on Tweety's burial site alongside a Badminton "birdie" and a sign that says, "Tweety the Bird." They are clever, so I forget about the mums.

I am touched by the way my son wanders over to the burial site long after the crowd has dispersed, rearranges the "Tweety the Bird" sign, and stands there, paying his respects, for several minutes with his head hung low.

I am glad this is my yard. I am glad the neighborhood kids have chosen this place to be kids, because on the odd days I am home, I get to watch.

It's a beautiful thing. And beauty is restorative.

Today, after being forced to watch Weird Al Yankovic videos for far too long, my son looked up at me and said, " Mom, is Weird Al related to that tennis player you like?"

At that moment, my heart may well have skipped a beat.

"No, sweetie," I told him, "They're not related. But the fact that you remember Jelena Yankovic the tennis player makes me very, very happy."

He shrugged, and then we both watched Weird Al again and again and again. Much better than the alternatives, don't you think?