Iíll Bring the Babies, You Provide the Presents: In November and December, we have a program called "Operation Sleighride" whereby low-income parents can sign up their children to get a gift or two for free, so that the children arenít left without over the holidays. The people are given forms to fill out, listing the childrenís names, ages, clothes sizes, and any special gifts they may want (keeping in mind that these are all DONATED by other people). Last year we had a woman sign up her SIX kids, one of whom was seventeen. She wasnít too pleased when we told her the seventeen-year-old wasnít eligible, but that was just the beginning. She then asked if she could put down the baby she was DUE TO HAVE IN MARCH! While explaining to her that, no, the program was only for people alive and breathing at the time of the holidays, I had to hold my tongue and say nothing about the fact that she was littering the world with children she could not provide for. The kicker was when she left and I looked at her sheet; for the gifts she wanted, she had written down things like cd-players, dirt bikes, and Sony Playstations.
Little Fanny Farts-a-lot: One day a pleasant woman came in with a small baby and a four-or-five-year-old. The kids were pretty well-behaved, especially in comparison to many of the little carpet-monsters who enter our facility, and the woman was standing at the counter holding the baby while I helped her sign up for some classes. Before long, the "bundle of joy" started fussing and squirming, so she laid it on the counter; no big deal, right. Well, sheís patting away on the little squirmerís back while sheís talking to me, and suddenly the thing farts. Once again, no big deal...people fart, right. Fine. But this woman, after saying "whoops!" and giving me an amused look that said "hey, what are you gonna do?", continues to pat her critterís back while itís splayed across my counter, shit-end facing toward ME. And it continues farting at me for the next three minutes while I help this woman with her business. I couldnít believe it. I wanted to at least say "could you PLEASE aim that thing somewhere else," but of course, I couldnít. My goodness, THAT would have been rude!
I Breed Em, You Feed Em: We have other scholarships throughout there year, similar to Operation Sleighride. Some of the people who sign up are gracious and thankful and Iím happy to help them in their time of need. Some of them, however, are selfish breeders who do nothing but pump out diaper-fillers and expect other people to pay for them. I never get over the nerve of these people. Itís not unusual for me to help a woman with three or four ankle-biters trailing after her, usually leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Sheíll stand there, obviously pregnant, while her already-born brood raises hell in our office, and she has the nerve to say something like "Weíre just really short on money right now, you know." I want to yell at her, "Maybe if you did something for yourself other than FUCKING, you could make ends meet and at least pretend to provide a life for your kids". I mean, Jesus...I have trouble affording my two cats sometimes. So the one thing I donít do is go get ANOTHER cat; and I also donít expect other people to buy them cat food or litter. I just had a woman in yesterday, about 30 years old, and she had FOUR kids, the oldest being 6 years old. She had literally spawned every 18 months, and she honestly expected me to feel sorry for her because she was "a little short on cash right now".
Another thing unavoidable to notice about many people signing up for scholarships is that they REEK of smoke. Funny how they can find the cash to support a hundred-dollar-a-week drug habit, but they canít feed their baby.
Who Would Have Thought, Kids are an Investment?: Every now and then I get parents who seem utterly surprised or frustrated at the demands of simple parenting. Some seem to want medals simply for doing their jobs. I had a very frazzled woman one day who spent a while signing up her kids for various activities and sports, dutifully writing everything down in a massive day-planner. When she was all done, she sighed dramatically, so I made some small-talkish comment like, "itís a lot to keep track of, isnít it?" All to eager to vent, she unleashed a brief tirade about how lucky her kids were to have "their own personal chauffeur drive them around all summer" and pay for everything. I thought to myself (as I smiled like a good worker-slave) "Well, what did you expect, lady? Theyíd shoot out of your uterus with driverís licenses and credit cards?"