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Of Best Friends and Cuntrags

Weevy’s got a few best friends, but there’s one that seems a little best-er than the rest. Although that may just be my view, since the missus and I have become friends with her parents as well. Friend X, as I shall call her, is a few months younger than Weevy and in a whole different world temperamentally. When they first became friends, she was kind of a wide-eyed, docile sheep whom Weevy kind of bossed around because… well, because she could. But since X turned 4, she’s changed. I mean really changed. Do not give this girl her way and you’re pretty much guaranteed a ferocious meltdown that, weirdly enough, commences with her braying like a donkey or sheep or something, followed by the usual screaming and hysterics. Anything can start it, but it usually has something to do with her not getting her way about something.

Bad as X’s meltdowns are, they’re nowhere near the worst I’ve seen. The worst I’ve seen happened when we were over at her other best friend’s, who I’ll refer to as Y. Y’s mom and I were planning to take the kids to one of Weevy’s favorite restaurants for lunch. Y was happily running around the house commando, and when her mom tried to get her to put on underwear, for some reason she decided that was going to be her Waterloo, her Gettsyburg, her Vendome, her… some other place where a pitched and ultimately doomed battle would be fought. Help me out here, history buffs.

Why it was so important to Y that she go to lunch without underpants, I can’t tell you. I haven’t been four years old for a long time, and I’ve never been a girl. But complete hysteria ensued, to the point where Y could almost literally not breathe because she’d worked herself up into such a frenzy. Now, Y has been known to show a bit of a temper, especially with Weevy. The most memorable time was when she ran into her room and slammed the door, locking Weevy out. Watching Weevy on the other side of the door, begging her friend to come out, is something I’ll never forget, even though Weevy has probably long since forgotten it.

Anyway… Y’s meltdown was so intense that her mom said, “Maybe you guys oughta leave now.” I was only too simpatico, and I tried to get Weevy to leave. Only thing was, she didn’t want to. She was fascinated with the freakshow unfolding before our eyes. Plus she wanted to play with Y’s toys. So when poor beleaguered Mama Y came out of the bathroom where Y had continued her epic meltdown, she was a little more firm — not quite “Get out” but pretty close, along with this look in her eye that said, “Why the fuck are you still here?!” Sadly, we haven’t been back to Y’s since, though she and Weevy are still thick as thieves.

The weird thing is, Weevy herself never, ever melts down. Sure, she cries or she’ll whine and get frustrated. But she gets over it pretty quickly. The gear that switches from Upset to Meltdown just doesn’t seem to be operational. I have no idea if that’s just her personality or awesome parentage or what, but I’m glad that she doesn’t pull that crap.

Anyway, back to Friend X. Now, it’s not that X can’t articulate what’s making her upset. When she starts with the braying in my presence, I always ask her what’s the matter. And she tells me. And she goes back to the fucking braying. It’s very weird.

On this occasion, however, there was no braying. We were at lunch with X and her mom, and the kids were drawing with crayons on the kids’ paper placemats. X was carefully coloring within the lines, and Weevy was doing something a little more… let’s call it abstract expressionist. X looked over at it and was clearly annoyed by it — I could see her thinking, “Why doesn’t she draw in the fucking lines?” And she told Weevy as much. Well, she said something like, “I don’t like your drawing.” And Weevy, sensitive artistic lass that she is, promptly burst into tears. All three of us parents tried to explain to X that she’d really hurt Weevy’s feelings and that wasn’t a nice thing she did. X’s response was basically, “I don’t give a fuck.” Not quite in those words, but the same message. Weevy kept drawing with a long face, occasionally bursting into tears and asking us, “Why doesn’t she like my drawing?” I wanted to say, “Because she’s being a fucking asshole, that’s why,” but I wisely held my tongue. Anyway, X eventually sort of apologized, Weevy forgot about the whole thing, they made up, and life went on.

The next day I was hanging out with the missus and she said, “I’m sorry, but X was a real cuntrag to Weevy.” Now, as the stay-at-home dad, I see X a lot more than the missus does. And I’ll admit that, while in general she’s a sweet kid, she can be pretty bratty when she wants to be. But calling a 4 year old a cuntrag… that went a little over the top even for a certified sprog-hater like myself.

I still think it’s cool she said it, though.

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