Child’s Play
I was having lunch the other day with a good friend of mine - Sas. We sat outside
on hippy-style benches, soaking up some good doses of sunshine while we engaged
in relentless chit-chat. As I cradled my fresh mint tea, anticipating the juicy flavours
of my organic grilled sandwich, she started telling me about an incident that occurred
at her work; the Dutch equivalent of Child Protection Services, where she is a child
psychologist. Apparently, the day in question was a hot one, so the windows were
open to provide some natural air-co., but the relief was short-lived as a child could
be heard screaming in the shopping centre down below. The crying produced enough
decibels to force my friend and two other colleagues to take a look. They caught
sight of a fraught teenage mum and an infant of around three years old, some distance
away from her mother. The hysterical child’s arms flailed in the air as foam bubbled
up around her mouth. She wouldn’t have looked out of place on the set of The Exorcist,
except that this child wasn’t possessed by an exotic demon, she just was one.
Sas approached the harassed mother and asked her if there was anything she could
do to help. She gave Sas a strange look and asked who she was and why she and her
colleagues were standing there. My friend was more than aware of not playing the
interfering know-all so she just told the mother that they worked above the shops
and had heard the commotion. The infuriated teenager explained that her child wanted
to do her own thing and not listen to her. It didn’t take the brain of Einstein to
figure out that that was indeed the crux of the problem. Then suddenly and without
due warning, the mother started shrieking at her fiendish child, in true fishwife
fashion ; “If you don’t do as I say, I’ll drop you off at the Child Protection agency,
see if I care!” This ironic caterwauling just served as oil on the fire, resulting
in a paroxysm of defiance beyond anything Sas had witnessed to date. The girl was
turning blue by this point and was fast looking like ‘grouchy smurf’ on a killing
spree.
My friend decided to end the malevolence once and for all. She approached the little
girl and tried to make contact with her. This was apparently no mean task, even for
a professional child psychologist; diffusing a bomb would have been easier. After
some soothing words and lots of smiles, the girl finally surrendered. She let Sas
hold her hand while mum was quite a distance ahead. She coaxed her into following
her mummy, which she did though still very reluctantly, dragging her cloven hooves
behind her. What a character, I thought to myself. Having heard the story, I looked
at Sas and saw her in a whole new light. She was a hero. She had outwitted a demonic,
self-destructing, shape shifter smurf and lived to tell the tale. Full of admiration
for her bravery, I exclaimed, “You’re Super Sas, all you need now is a cape with
SS on the back.”. After a moment’s pause she said; “No, I don’t think so Karen!