Invasion of the tiny people

[DISCLAIMER: NO CHILDREN OR THEIR PARENTS WERE INJURED IN THE MAKING OF THIS POST.  IF YOU FIND THE TERM 'BREEDER' OFFENSIVE, STOP READING NOW.]

When I moved to Park Slope I was warned that it was overrun with baby carriages, that little people crowd the streets and stay-at-home moms/nannies take over every freaking seat at Starbucks.

I was warned I would go crazy, that I would begin to look at the breeders with raw hatred and disgust but it wouldn't matter.  I would be outnumbered and powerless against the swarms of children bombarding me, cutting me off, slamming into me with their scooters and tricycles and training wheeled bikes.

"Nonsense," I protested.  I love kids.  The Midwest was breeder crazy.  All these families mean it is a safe neighborhood. How bad could it be?

IT IS FREAKING BAD, people. BAD.

So much so that with the exception of my beautiful perfect princess Maddy, I have developed an uncontrollable desire to drop-kick every whiney, snotty, smelly tiny person that gets in my way.

And it's not their fault. It's the Breeders'.

There is an entire website dedicated to the fact that women in Park Slope regularly whip out the boob in line at Starbucks and that the bars have become so inundated with strollers that there is no place for single people wanting to drink away their realities to sit.

I have friends who are parents.  I have tiny people I love so much I would gladly let them run rampant in the sidewalks.  But right now I can't see that.  Right now, I am just blinded with irritation and all I can see is my bat-shit next-door neighbor screaming at the top of her lungs about noise that is apparently coming from my apartment and keeping her and her off-spring awake.

(HOLY SHIT, as I write this I am being smacked by a little person, who can't grasp the concept of rock, paper, scissors and whose mother just doesn't really care about the assault of a stranger. But I digress.)

Anyway, crazy neighbor, who I get to call crazy because she chose to voice her frustrations by screaming at my landlord in the middle of the street (New Yorkers do a lot of screaming at each other, I am learning), was upset because she believed me to be building something in the middle of the night.

My landlord texted me about the problem and I immediately became racked with Catholic guilt.  Awash with Sister Jackie flashbacks, my mouth went dry and I started to sweat.

But wait a second.  I wasn't hanging or building anything at the hour in question and unless paint rollers send seismic shocks through brick walls, crazy was off base.   Still, I did hang a decorative shelf on a a middle wall with a SCREWDRIVER but as my mother groaned in perfect motherly disgust - you have got to be kidding me.  I don't know what this woman was hearing but obviously my breathing was too loud. The guilt passed and the irritation grew and grew.

My landlord sent another text on behalf of the neighbor.  "Please keep quiet hours after 8 o'clock."

8 o'clock?  8 a freaking clock?  Primetime TV doesn't even begin until 8 o'clock.  Who even gets home before 8 o'clock?   Are you telling me I can't even vacuum after 8 o'clock should I feel so inclined???

Irrationality was filling my being. Little people screaming wakes me up before 7 am every Saturday morning but I am to live like a monk.

I am not proud of the thoughts I had or how long they lasted (5 days) or the spiteful things I felt like doing such as washing my pots and pans with a metal ladle instead of a sponge.

Instead I went out and when I was home, hid in the alcove that is my bedroom.

Eventually, though I saw my landlord on the street with her 5 year old triplets in tow.  She was clearly sleep deprived and over-caffeinated.  I told her I heard the neighbor's rant from my bedroom window and I was truly sorry if I had done anything inappropriate.

"Don't worry," she told me.  She had lived in my studio before and the radiator sounded like a firing squad.  "It is not your fault."

"Do you mind if we go in today and check your smoke detectors?" she asked me as I was walking away.

"Sure, if you don't mind the mess of stuff I have yet to hang up."

"No problem," she said, "I live with three kids.  They are animals."

AMEN.