I crossed paths with her just the other day.
I wanted to duck, to become invisible, but it was too late.
The Busybody got me.
Busybody is a sad woman, vacillating between Debbie Downer takes and questions about my children. She doesn't seem to like any teacher; she seeks to compare our children, put hers on top.
Her need to swap notes comes from an insecure place, from fear and a little boredom. Conversations with her make me want to express deliver antidepressants to her door.
Still, the questions about my kids' activities wear me out. Questions about this fall - 'Why haven't you moved yet?' - are even more draining, slowly dripping from her lips.
I turned my head to the park, my eyes fixed on my boy while she asked me why he wasn't doing this or that activity. Asking questions that would have seemed ludicrous back when I was seven and time, not scheduled activities, was my oyster.
And I said something that surprised me: 'He knows what he likes. I guess we'll look at other things when he shows an interest.'
It seems obvious to me. Lexi had been gone all afternoon and Zack had entertained himself with his hat, galloping around the house while I laid around, a little under the weather with a summer cold. He is tickled to help me around the house; he has a happy heart.
There will be time enough to compete, to build a resume. For now it is summer and to be a child - root beer floats and singing - is enough.