She’s standing there under my 3-year-old, arms aloft like she’s at church waiting for God to drop a truth bomb on her. Baby Bear monkey-shimmies 6-foot metal ladder.
“Do you know whose he is?” she asks me, almost breathless with terror.
“He’s mine,” I say. “And he’s been climbing that ladder since he was 2.”
She gawks at me. And then I know I’m doomed: She’s a hoverer. And unless I hover over my kids, she’ll do it for me, not-so-silently judging me all the time. Thanks for ruining my mama playdate, lady.
Because there are two kinds of parents at the park.
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