Consider the Source

My husband is a sound-bite Republican. He’s much more palatable to engage when you remind yourself that his thoughts on politics aren’t original. We rarely run in social circles that are aligned with his political leanings. Our friend groups are a mix of his high school buddies who are coupled with kids and city-dwellers who defected to the suburbs when they procreated. The latter are folks we met because our kids were daycare friends. ‘

It’s rare for me to feel like the outcast of a group. I can typically flex my social skills and topics of conversation to something that — following a sound reading of the room — would be of universal interest.

I’m usually pretty good at weeding out topics and people. It’s a skill I picked up from my mom, no doubt. She can see through people, but that’s only a flex for the ones who are good at hiding their true colors.

This guy wasn’t.

He wore a MAGA hat to our son’s third birthday party; a head-covering so red it felt like we were part of a preschool running of the bulls and he was the target.

It was the first time my antennas were up. I wondered if it could have been ironic, like in that one Curb Your Enthusiasm episode. Did he just not want friends? Was he hoping to be seen as a social assassin?

I wondered if maybe he was just bolder than my husband, but still harmless. I reasoned that he appeared to be a loving father and husband.

But appearances are all relative.

His hat was a way of peacocking; a precursor to his proclivity for polarizing swarms of preschool parents. The hat made its way to school grounds, flanked by similarly positioned bumper stickers. Summers at the pool felt soured by his tone-deaf way of dress. It was almost impossible to take him seriously.

And it wasn’t all politics.

I oscillated between reason and logic, wondering if I’d have similar doubts and concerns about a person’s character if they paraded around in a “Biden-Harris” shirt or cap. I knew that I wouldn’t.

This entire conflict was self-contained because it was inherently all me. He knew of no issue between us.

It wasn’t fair.

His toxic friendliness started to overpower his politics.

I don’t love hugging; I’m a control freak and don’t find comfort in getting lost in a person’s embrace. My kids are the exception. Their hugs, their snuggles, their laughter. It’s the best.

This man is a hugger. A hugger who hugs tight, kisses cheeks, and tells people he barely knows, and their kids, that he loves them. Love is a big word.

My husband and I are both highly therapized individuals. We may not always be great at how we communicate with each other, but when our kids are part of the equation, their safety and wellbeing is top-priority.

Parenting is hard. I find humor in the chaos and dysfunction that comes with raising kids. I’m careful not to offer advice when it’s not solicited, and to keep my mom-hacks transparent. There’s nothing worse than turning to a person for perspective and leaving the conversation feeling more alone and helpless because they kept their cards so close to their chest. Some people don’t want to share their struggles. Others keep their guards high because to lower them is to reveal their true colors.

And that’s when I realized my instincts were right.

It wasn’t just his friendliness that was toxic. It was his whole performance as a parent.

My everyday reality is that my kids are polar opposites; they’re both great and I wouldn’t trade them for the world, but I’m candid about the struggles because the struggles are real.

Everything came to a head at graduation.

The ceremony was adorable and emotions were high. I could never have guessed that I’d be bawling like a baby while my first-born sang “Unwritten” with his classmates, all wearing mini, fully-decorated graduation caps.

My son made me a mom. He teaches me about myself daily. It’s unlikely that he’ll ever know just how much he means to me, and how much I love the moments where it’s just the two of us. He is the most fun; a heart of gold, an unparalleled imagination, and a never-ending thirst for knowledge.

Any criticism of my son outside of our circle — my husband and me — is met with my Mama Bear alter ego; my mind starts to run in a way that is like it’s running away. Words prepare to hurt.

Months ago, there was an incident at the park. His son and my son were playing. There was an innocent push in a physical exchange that ended with his son falling from a table, thankfully uninjured. He hurled comments at my husband, both of them being wrong for not closely watching the kids.

It didn’t stop there. My son was removed from the situation and scolded, whereas he and his son continued on, reengaging in the dangerous behavior with other kids, the father working on a narrative about my son and his behavior.

A grown man, finding his emotional equal in a toddler. Charming.

I let it blow over, but put barriers in place so as to not have to engage with someone who had established himself as a man-child in my eyes.

And so, at graduation, when all was said and done and families gathered for an after-party, things boiled up and over.

I had had enough.

After a few calculated comments about my son, my upbringing — all while telling my son he loves him. Hugging him.

Love is a big word, and so is hate.

I don’t really hate anyone. If and when I use the word, it’s either colloquial in nature, or in quoting someone else. Hating takes a lot of energy.

I’ve talked before with my husband about how uncomfortable it makes me that this person would tell my kid he loves him. He doesn’t know him. He doesn’t know us.

I shared this with my son, too, in words that I felt a five-year-old would understand. I explained to him that he doesn’t have to hug anyone he doesn’t want to, that he can set boundaries, and that love is a big feeling and should be taken seriously when shared with someone. There’s nothing light about love.

My son didn’t totally follow my logic. He’s smart, though, and could tell I didn’t really like this person, because he was at the center of the story with themes of consent and boundaries.

And so at school, he declined to reciprocate a high-five because “my mommy doesn’t like that man.”

News of the exchange made its way to me, and I owned up to what I said. As my son loves to say, “I said what I said, and I meant what I said.”

My ownership didn’t land the way I had hoped it would; it was a real-life case of “he said, she said” — where it was suggested my kid said that I hated him.

I believe that hate starts at home, and as such, am very careful about that word and those feelings in front of my kids. I’m a big believer in protecting my kids’ innocence. The same guy who dresses his kid in Trump t-shirts and enables his kid to breach boundaries was the one telling me he was concerned for my kid’s trajectory.

It was a real-life tragic comedy. If his opinion mattered, I’d be crushed. Instead, I was amused. Aren’t kids supposed to say the darnedest things?