Mommy’s shouting again. She’s on the phone yelling to someone because they ‘messed up’ (words to that effect!) with ‘shipping’ or something like that. My mommy (her name is Charlotte) works for a big department store, and to those people she is very important. I think they must be scared of her because she shouts a lot.
She yelled at me today. When I was at the park I almost made friends with this boy who spoke funny. He had different clothes, too. Mommy said he was ‘not as good as me’ (Mommy always has a way of explaining things so as I can understand them but a lot of the time I don’t like what she’s trying to teach me) but I thought he was pretty okay. I was sad when I had to go; I wished I could play with him a little but Mommy ‘simply will not have it’.
“Some people in this goddamn town are so goddamn ignorant!” I decide to rant to my husband as soon as I put my eldest son to bed. “Gerard was in the park today, he made a friend but her mother came and took her away because we aren’t rich!”
My husband James shakes his head desolately. “We’re second class citizens, Dawn, you just gotta get used to it.”
“It’s the goddamn 21st century, I don’t goddamn have to get used to it!”
“You don’t need to cuss, honey. Come and sit down.”
He is sitting at the dining table, a crappy little thing we’d bought in Wal-Mart when we got married, and pats his knee. I sigh and perch on his lap, my arms wrapping around his neck. His eyes stare straight into mine in a desperate attempt to soothe my rage. To no avail.