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Parenting down the tubes

April 3, 2013 - Paul Giannamore
When The Drummer was a little guy, somewhere in the early 1990s, he was a regular fiend at the annual Easter egg hunt on the lawn at St. Joseph’s church in Toronto.

The Boss and I would routinely caution him that he was not to go knocking other kids out of the way to get a prize-filled plastic egg.

It was about that time he got a hearty punishment for his agressive driving in relation to other children. Imagine if Dale Earnhardt Sr. was riding a tricycle around a parking lot near other children. You get the idea. The Drummer’s “Hey, that kid was in my way” line didn’t hold up too well with we parental units.

Sadly, a fast-forward from the 1990s to now reveals it’s some parental units that need the reminder of how to behave in relation to others, especially the children of others.

From that hotbed of Bohemian gentility known as Seattle comes this week’s sordid tale of the bloody-nosed moms. Seems one mother pushed another mother’s child out of the way at an Easter egg hunt for four-to-six year olds. The shovee’s mother then got involved, and one thing led to another and blam, blam, swearing ensued and there was a mom with a bloody nose. It was Mom the Child Shover who ended up with the punch in the nose. Mom of the Shovee departed.

The Seattle police say no charges were filed because the punching mom departed quickly and the shoving mom didn’t want to file a complaint.

Maybe that’s a sign of hope. Maybe shoving mom felt just a tiny bit ashamed.

And a bit of shame nowadays could start to right a bunch of wrongs, couldn’t it?

At the very least, maybe it restores the hope that future generations of parents will be somehow able to teach their kids not to drink all night and rape one another while broadcasting their activities to the whole world and wrecking lives and a whole community in the process, right? Because the innocence of Easter egg hunts dies out pretty early in the lives of children nowadays.

(Definitions for non-regulars of my old high-fiber column: The Drummer is my son, now nearly 22, with about a year in college to go. The Boss is my wife, the mother of our two children, and, well, the lady in charge around our house. She was a little less in charge when I was Gym Guy these past 18 months, but her assertiveness rose the minute the words “I’m going back to the Herald-Star” left my lips. Hmmmm...)


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