Child. Molester.

Settle back for a whiny tale of Hillbilly Mom, Victim. Last night, I took my #1 son to his Honors Choir concert at the local college. He had to be there by 6:30, so we arrived around 6:20. We Hillbillies are nothing if not punctual. The boy took off, and The Pony, my mom, and I selected seats on the main level of the field house, front row of metal bleachers. We had a good view of the choir risers, and could stretch out our legs. The place filled up to about 3/4 its capacity. At 10 minutes before 7:00, The Devil's Daughter arrived.

Let me preface this little pity party with the facts: Hillbilly Mom does not like people; Hillbilly Mom does not like to be touched; Hillbilly Mom does not like crowds; Hillbilly Mom does not like children very much, other than her own or those of some colleagues. Also let me make the distinction that I am not so much a child hater as I am a non-fan of the maturity-challenged. I do not blame the incidents about to be reported on the little girl. She did not know any better. After all, she had never had her behavior corrected in her entire life. I blame the spawner, not the spawn.

The Devil's Daughter was dragged in by her mother, Satan's Handmaiden. SH plopped down between me and the people on my left with nary a how-do-you-do or is-this-seat-taken. Since there was limited room in our prime seating area, she picked up DD and wedged her between us. The kid was between 2 and 3 years old. She rode my left hip for a while, squirming and jabbing me with her precocious elbows. Then she decided to stand for a bit on the bleacher. Wasn't that dangerous for such a wee tot? Heavens, NO! She stood with her sticky palm on my left shoulder, like I was the headrest of a car seat. I tried to shrug out of it with no such luck. Then dear little DD grabbed the sleeve of my shirt and pulled, which kind of exposed the strap of my unfashionable foundation garment through the stretched neck-hole, so I yanked my clothing back into proper adjustment with a bit of an attitude. Then the untamed urchin squeezed my shoulder like she was picking an apple off a tree. Except that the knobby bone end of my humeral head was HELLO attached to rest of my humerus and did not budge, leaving her with a handful of shirt. This new turn of events apparently enraged the tiny terror, and she pulled out the piece de' resistance...She reached her taloned little hand into my side, and latched onto a big wad of underarm-above waist flab and twisted it. Yeah. That kind of smarted, having my side-fat squeezed like so much yellow Play-Dough through her bony fingers.

By this time, I had scooted away all the room between me and The Pony. The book he had lying between us was held by his grandma, who kindly offered to trade places with me. I was having none o' that. She would have befriended Satan's Handmaiden, and passed out candy to the Devil's Daughter. People should not be rewarded for rudeness. NOT ONE TIME did that woman EVER say, "Excuse me" or "Oopsie" or "Sorry". No. She chose to let her daughter ride me like a rodeo bull. She let her frolic upon my person like I was a piece of playground equipment.

I readily admit that I did not retaliate. I was not a part of the solution, so I suppose I was a part of the problem. Hillbilly Mom does not like confrontation. Judging by the total disregard of her daughter's behavior, and the waft of exhaled alcohol from that direction, I thought it best to simply give myself scoliosis by bending away from the onslaught. This is Hillmomba, you know. At any moment a knife fight could break out. You don't want to ruin your son's concert by taunting a drunken female with young to protect.

Funny thing, how if the daughter was a dog, her leash would have been yanked when she started to jump on me. But because she was human, her tender self-esteem was to be cherished.

I was molested last night by a child. A child molester.