Waffles, Wayfaring Strangers, and Womanwork
Game Recognize Game
Well reader-friends —
I am on a bit of road trip this weekend. More on those adventures soon, likely. But in the meantime …
I stopped along the way last night for a sleep. This morning, and with no, other alternatives in sight, I made my way to that Place of All the Places — the hotel breakfast room. As I begin to look around, not yet combobulated and trying to figure out my coffee and breakfast-ing strategy, I become part of a morning chat with two Moms, one at a table with three kiddos, the other fucking brilliantly managing her own two tables of six littles.
Mom of Three compliments Mom of Six.
She notes just how amazing it is to make all of that, happen.
You damn skippy, Mom of Three.
You.
Damn.
Skippy.
Mom of Six smiles and says that her husband, who is “in athletics,” has said that once you go from man to man to zone … It’s really all the same. And then she smiles, humbly, and notes she doesn’t really know for sure, not being an athlete, or anything. We smile, nod, and proceed to go about our breakfast business.
A few minutes later … Dad of Six ambles into the breakfast room, solo. Admittedly, I dunno what “in athletics” might mean, but that dude? He looks about as in the athletics as me. Which is to say, pretty much not in any athletics, anytime, anywhere, at all. He leisurely starts making himself a waffle, all while not speaking at all to his six, busy, chattering, eating children, as Mom continues to buzz around, serving, refereeing, and doing all the things. Magnificently doing all the things, I might add. Then, she orients Dad to the breakfast room, since he seems unable to pull that off for himself, seemingly so he can leisurely finish his - still totally solo, arguably even contemplative? - breakfast prep.
I wonder …
Perhaps Dad can really only find his way one place, over and over again, reliably?
Though, to be fair and best I can tell —
He likely gets a lot of help with that, too.
Soon after, as I sit a bit away, at my own table, making my way through the breakfast sammich I have magically created in said Breakfast Room, one of those six littles (My best guess is that she is the second or third youngest of the six. Hey there, Middle-ish Girl Kid! We see you!) starts to say, quite unsolicited …
“I’m a Gaaaang-ster!”
Girl.
Same.
It happens a coupla more times, with what appears to be no response. And that, my friends? That is pretty clearly not the intended outcome, at all. Still, fear not. Like so many other Middle-ish Girl Kids, our heroine is ever resourceful. She chirpily hops off her chair, makes her way to the next-door table where her Mom has - finally - been able to perch for a bit, and says,
“Mom! Watch!
Emily taught me this.
I’m a Gaaaaaang-ster!
I’m a Gangster!
I’m a Gang-sterrrrrrrrrr!”
But now? Now.
Now there is also an arm movement.
It’s a sort of …
Jaunty, perfectly timed “And how!” Kinda thing.
Much like if Little Orphan Annie was, also, a gangster.
Because, let’s face it —
She so clearly was.
Her Mom, who I can barely take my trying-not-to-pry eyes off of - so struck I am by how she so calmly, kindly pulls all this shit off - then asks Emily’s Little Sister (the artist formerly known as MGK) to do it all again, just like she did it before. After a coupla more practice runs, she films it all with her phone.
Wait.
Wait.
Maybe they’re influencers?
I’ve heard tell of such business.
And … Hell.
Six kids need stuff.
Not too long after, Mom of Six herds the whole, adorable bunch to whatever next adventures loom nearby. They are wonderfully ready to roll. In it to win it. Go, them.
And Dad?
Well Dad gets more solo, quiet time.
Scrolling his phone.
Eating his yogurt.
Nary a care in the world.
Yeaaaahhhhhhh.
It’s clearly, really all just the same, isn’t it?
Sadly, I missed my chance to tell Emily’s Little Sister that I, too, am a gangster. But you know what? I’m not that worried about it, really. I bet she just knew.
Because game?
Game recognize game.