Mortification

The Girl and I went to the Children's Museum today. This in itself was a huge triumph on her part, because I have grown to loathe the Children's Museum with almost every fiber of my being. Not because it isn't educational or fun for her, but because it makes me want to lynch myself from the boredom. When we walk in the doors and I get my first glimpse of the round lobby and the gift shop, my eyes glaze over and I turn inward, hoping I can make it through the next few hours without going on some sort of zombie-rampage.

On the second floor of the museum is a room devoted to creating stuff out of bits and pieces. There are egg cartons, colorful tape, crayons, scissors, ribbon, paper, you name it. And you can create anything imaginable (assuming your imagination is good enough.) We were sitting in there, across the table from a very large African American man and his two little daughters, and Zoe had found a wine cork. We also had a single strip of egg carton cups, and it was going to be a caterpillar with the cork as the head. Then she found a piece of grey styrofoam, but discarded it. I picked it up and discovered a hole in the underside. It fit perfectly on the cork. I handed it to Zoe, and said, "Hey, this could be his hair!" realizing too late that it looked almost exactly like Don King. Even though she doesn't know who Don King is, handing her a cork-head with a makeshift 'fro on it was going to open up a can of worms I wanted nothing to do with.

I went to work on the rest of the caterpillar, finding that crayons don't work on the styrofoam stuff most cartons are made out of. "Guess who this is!" Zoe hollers.

"I don't know."

"I'll give you a hint: he's holding a microphone!" Yeah, I know where this is going, and I'm wishing I was anywhere but here, anywhen but now.

"I. Don't. Know." Then I lean in and say, "Please be a little quieter."

Eye rolling. "Black hair and brown skin? Moooom. . . it's Michael Jackson!" And I'm thinking that the last time Michael Jackson had an actual 'fro was about 25 years ago, and also that the giant man four feet away from me is going to be offended by this aggressively white girl saying something that shouldn't be offensive at all, but could be twisted and construed to BE offensive somehow. I wanted to leap over the table to him and sob into his face that I'm NOT a bigot, and I didn't teach my kid that everybody with dark skin likes to talk about slavery! Honest! (Yes, she does seem to think that."

Nothing happened. We left Michael Jackson on the table and walked out. Really I should have kept him, because he looked a little bit like a mushroom.