Midget Problems

You might think the title of this post would mean something like having problems that are really small, or don’t amount to anything. No, it actually refers to the curse I inflicted on another human being, completely by accident. I really didn’t mean to and it wasn’t some Greek tragedy promise I’d worked out with the universe, or anything like that (I mean, come on, if I had the power to change the course of history with a single wish, do you think I’d waste it on a mere mortal when I could have used it to gain majority control of Nestle corporation?!).

I accidentally made my kid a midget.

Don’t get all politically correct douche canoe on me. If my kid was actually a medical midget, would I be using that word? No, if my kid did have a genetically issued diagnosis of dwarfism in some form, I’d throat punch people for calling her names. Midget, however, doesn’t seem to bother me as a word or a diagnosis but that could be because I’m not related to any. Since it’s not a diagnosis and she’s not actually horrifically undersized, midget fits. As in, when this happens:

Or when she’s given a principle role in a stage production and meets her partner at the first choreography rehearsal and the director keeps eyeballing them and asking, “How is she with stilts?” (There’s a whole other reason why she’s awesome on stilts, but that was a different play.)

I don’t love being in a position of having no one else to blame. Besides being a little midgety myself, I failed to marry a man who was tall enough to reach that useless cabinet that idiot contractors put above the refrigerator for some reason. Of course, I also failed to marry a man with a last name that would sound good hyphenated with mine or who had a trust fund, so offspring height really wasn’t high on my list of priorities at the time. Sorry kiddo, for doing this to you, but when they need actors for the Lollipop Guild, you’re in.

It Hurts a Little When Children’s Dreams Die

I remember the precise moment in time when I learned the world was a cold, cruel, unfair place. I was a little kid, and judging by the car this story takes place in I had to be between the ages of two and five. I was riding down the road with my mom and I asked her a truly profound question:

“When blind people drive, how do they know where to turn?”

The resulting conversation was heart breaking. I was bereft with unadulterated hurting at the thought that someone wouldn’t be able to drive just because he’s blind. It left me reeling, wondering what other seemingly arbitrary “rules” had been forced upon us as a society.

But now, I’ve had to sit back helplessly while my own beautiful, wide-eyed, innocent daughter struggles with the reality of the cold hard truth. She sent me this text message:


You can just feel the pain coming through the phone, fourteen words that speak volumes about what it means to have your dreams die, even if they’re dreams of living in a world where you can actually dance in a castle owned by a man who wears garters and a bustier all day. He’s the embodiment of Hugh Hefner joined with Frederick’s of Hollywood, and now it will never happen.

All because Janet (she’s a cow, I tell ya) probably has a cell phone with her. Of course, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that Janet’s a bitch who would probably have insisted that Brad pull off the highway at the first sign of car trouble, so the whole thing would never have happened. And Brad would have had to have actually listened to her for once for them to end up at Dr. Frankenfurter’s castle, so it’s a moot point anyway.