Summoning demons or making noise
Who's to say?
On the train headed home from LaGuardia (yes, I am a cheap mf) I'm sitting across from this woman who has three small kids and five large bags of groceries. The kids are probably 5, 7, and 91.
They're dripped tf out too—Calvin Klein coat, camo ripped jeans, Guess shirt. Actually, they’re dressed better than me, which feels unfair given that at least one of them still eats crayons recreationally.
Two of them take turns climbing on their mom, fighting each other, or screaming. The third is so chill, reading Baby Sister's Little Sister 38: Karen’s Big Lie—sequel to Baby Sister's Little Sister 37: Karen’s Tuba (it’s already on my Goodreads, don't worry).
I've considered transferring cars for five stops now, but instead, I’m now engrossed by the mom reading WILD VET ADVENTURES2 to her kids. At this point, I'm more invested in the storyline than Trump is in annexing Greenland.
”Mommy, mommy, rabbba dabba do oh oh oh!" yells the youngest, possibly attempting a Flintstones impression, potentially summoning something. Really, who’s to say?3
Unaware of the potential demon spawning, one of the girls is playing one of those handheld marble-through-the-slit games, a relic from an era when my biggest worry was my Club Penguin (🪦) girlfriend cheating on me.
"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6," the mom says, patiently teaching her youngest how to count on both of their hands.
"Mommy, look! It says Martin Luther King!" declares the oldest, demanding mom’s attention, pointing to her book.
"That says Arthur's Tooth," corrects the mom (though Dr. King's 'I Have A Cavity' speech would have left a deep impression4).
A highlight reel of other moments:
The youngest smacks his sister for book rights.
The mom, both stern and gentle, explains that Penguin Random House does not condone street justice.
One of them attempts Showtime5 with zero preparation.
Unfortunately, he did not get much money from the crowd.
The quiet one stays unshaken while their siblings perfect a scream frequency only dogs, special scientific instruments, and apparently myself can hear.
"Nan-nan-nan-na-boo-boos" aplenty
"WE ARE WINNINGGGGG!"—one of them, full-body Rocky mode, arms up, standing on the seat before falling due to the train starting.
Their career goals:
"I wanna be a lion!"
"I wanna work at Sonic!!"
"I wanna be a cloud!" (Not a cloud engineer—just an actual floating mass of water vapor6.)
At some point, I realize I've been staring. And by 'some point' I mean the mom and I make eye contact.
Time stands still.
My brain: Ah shit. I've been documenting this like a court reporter there is NO way she hasn't noticed. This is weird as hell, isn't it? Like truly if I—
She smiles.
Never min, we are SO out here. I’m normal, this is a normal thing that normal people do.
"I'm really impressed with you doing all this," I say, gesturing at the everything. "I think I'd just sit down and cry."
She laughs, shaking her head. "Trust me, sometimes I do. But mostly... you just figure it out."
We chat. The kids show me their handheld water-ring game7. They scream unintelligible things in my direction. Are they talking to me? Still trying to summon the demon? 🤷
I ask how her oldest stays so chill through the chaos.
"Oh, she always does that," the mom says.
"She should be an ER doctor," the woman next to me adds.
"Funny you say that—she actually wants to be a doctor," the mom says, looking at her daughter proudly.
"Yeah," says the reader in a mouselike manner, speaking for the first time the entire ride from Jackson Heights to Downtown Brooklyn8.
One stop before they get off, the mom commands the squad: "You take this bag. You take that bag. You stand here." That’s either great parenting or a very polite abduction.
The kids walk off, then turn back. "Bye!" they say, waving. And got damn, it's just 😮😭🫡🙃. Y'all know, y’all feel me.
Anyway, I guess there's a few takeaways here:
Moms are absolutely incredible.
Staring at and talking to strangers on the subway is acceptable if not encouraged9.
Working at Sonic is an elite career path.
I actually have no idea how to estimate the age of children so they may have been 2 or 15 idk
The woman who wrote that book is named ‘Gabby Wild’ and is described as ‘wildlife veterinarian and super-fashionista, Dr. Wild’ —- god damn that’s so cool.
Hey look, that’s the title!
This joke is only for Isaac. If you are not Isaac, I apologize.
Showtime is not not a reference to the Los Angeles Lakers, but to ^
hell yeah
At this point, I’ve become aware that my original assessment of marble-slits was made in err. Truly I’m embarrassed but am leaving this in for transparency’s sake. You’re welcome.
This was actually the point that I was assured she wasn’t animatronic and was indeed just unbothered in a way that I can only aspire to be.
For legal reasons, this is a joke.