I was in that awful place, the place of fire and smoke, where the gnashing of teeth goes on and on, where there is weeping in the outer darkness.
So, there I was, in the kitchen, washing my new set of mixing bowls. I had finally managed to chip, crack, and stain my old ceramic set into a state fit only for potted plants, so I had ordered new ones. The new bowls are shiny stainless steel, the kind that will not shatter no matter how many times I accidentally fling them onto the floor. They are colorful. They have lids. And pulling them out of the Amazon box was the highlight of my week.
"What does this say about us?" my Buddy asked as we oohed and aahed. "I'm unreasonably excited about my new pots and pans. Is this what being an adult is?"
"They're shiny!" I cooed.
"Is this who we are now? Is this middle age?"
I digress.
We solved the existential crisis - shiny! new! cookware! - and I was standing at the kitchen sink, lovingly washing my new bowls, when my 8 year old son stormed into the room with a furious scowl.
"I," he declared, "DO EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE."
Silence.
With immense self control, I continued to wash the bowl. I believe in allowing kids to experience Irony. My dear buddy had to turn around so that he would not see her laughing.
"You do everything in this house?" I asked.
"Yes," he sighed. "Why do I have to do all the work?"
"Well, we do appreciate the fact that you clean everything," I said, rinsing the bowl and stacking it, lovingly, with the other. "We would never have any clean dishes if you didn't wash all of them."
His brow furrowed. He looked at the dishes. He looked at me. "Well - "
"And where," I went on, "would we be if you didn't shop for all the groceries and make sure we had healthy food when we needed it?"
"I didn't mean - "
"I'll bet you vacuum all the rooms," my buddy added, helpfully.
"Don't forget the laundry! I really am grateful that you do all the laundry in the house. I like having clean pajama pants to wear when I go to the grocery store."
"MOM!" he cried, exasperated. "I mean that I do so much! I tided the living room and the music room! I swept the floor!"
"I can see that. I appreciate that. And I'm glad that you are helping Daddy take all the trash to the recycling center right now."
"I'm trying to tell you," my medium-sized man concluded, "that I FEEL like I do everything."
"Ah. Well." I dried my hands. "I'm sorry that you are frustrated by your chores. I understand that they can feel overwhelming. We can discuss your responsibilities later, but I need you to hear what you just said. You just informed me that you feel that you do everything, yes?"
"Yes!"
"And do you perform all the tasks in the house?"
He pondered. "No... but I feel - !"
"Kid, I get how you feel. I hear you. But I need you to understand something; how you feel is not an objective reality. Reality isn't changed by your feeling. Your feelings are valid, but they aren't the same thing as true."
Then I dropped the mic into the soapy dishwater.
(If only. That would have been fabulous.)
Instead, I went back to my bowls. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
He sighed. "Yes."
"We can talk about your level of chores later, okay?"
"Okay."
"Great. Now, run along and play. I need to call the White House Press Secretary."
Sunday, January 29, 2017
Friday, December 9, 2016
Aluminum: The 10 Year Chip
Today, I have leveled up.
I have reached that sacred milestone, the Aluminum anniversary.
Ten years ago, I stuffed my aunt's wedding dress into my old Buick and sang all the way to the church with my best friend/ maid of honor by my side. I almost ran down the aisle, pulling my father after me. He whispered, "This is your moment. Take your time"
And I whispered, "I can't wait!"
Ten years.
Seven moves.
Everything from a tiny one bedroom apartment to a rambling country house with broken windows.
Ten years.
Five jobs.
Unemployment with a toddler and 6 month pregnant wife.
Ten years.
Two kids.
Four surgeries.
We survived an underwater mortgage, a landlord who didn't believe in fixing things, countless ER visits, moving a grand piano over 2 inches of ice...
When we moved into the newly bought house in Charlotte, the previous owners had sworn to turn off the alarm service. They didn't. And as we struggled with boxes and a sobbing, tired baby boy and finding toilet paper, the alarm went off (and we're talking FOGHORN, people). And as my ears began to bleed and eight adults collapsed into balls of whimpering pain, I remembered that one of the owners had written a little code on a Post-It at closing and I knew where it was ---
-- and I turned off that Effing Alarm.
And my husband looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "I have never loved you more than I do in this moment."
The police showed up twenty minutes later. They stood in the open doorway and one of the said, "Huh. This is the weirdest burglary I've ever seen. Ya'll are bringing the stuff IN?"
Ten years. We've survived (and in my case, that's a quite literal victory).
We've learned how to fight. We've had battles over important issues like Cake, Immigration Policy, the Cat, a Book, and Another Cake (for serious).
We've learned how to love. My introvert needs time and space. I need someone to take over slicing bread for guests after I cut my finger open with the bread knife.
We've learned how to balance, how to be Us, how to be Alone, how to be a Parent, how to Adult, how to be Ridiculous, how to be Honest and Ugly and Sorry and So Happy.
And we're still learning.
I should write something Romantic - about how he is still my Hero (he is), and how he makes me feel like a Queen (he does), and how our Love will Never Die (but we will).
What I remember is the way my stomach stopped churning when I heard his voice on the phone after a college student hit our car. He was coming to hold me, and that would be Enough.
I remember still shaking from shock from a bad emergency C-section, and they wheeled me into the post-op room, and I saw him holding our baby girl, safe and sound, and I saw how they looked at each other and I knew that would be Enough.
I kissed his cheek before they took me away for yet another surgery and I told him the God's honest truth: "You have made me happier than I ever thought possible." That would be Enough.
And when the post-partum anxiety was so bad that I didn't sleep for 4 days, he was there. He held me while I hallucinated. When I whispered, "I know the ceiling fan isn't a badger! I can fix this!", he stroked my hair and murmured, "Go to sleep, love. I've got you."
That damn badger was no match for him.
I guess what I wanted to say, for the record, is that the last ten years have been so much more wild and difficult that I could have ever guessed. And I have no doubt that the next 10 years will be just as mind boggling, because it is simply what our Life is.
But I know that when I roll over in the morning, my knee will accidentally collide with the sturdy back of a forgiving husband, the sort of man who will accept my mumbled apology and will roll over to kiss my forehead.
Then, he will whisper, "Coffee?"
And I will be Home.
I can't wait.
I have reached that sacred milestone, the Aluminum anniversary.
Ten years ago, I stuffed my aunt's wedding dress into my old Buick and sang all the way to the church with my best friend/ maid of honor by my side. I almost ran down the aisle, pulling my father after me. He whispered, "This is your moment. Take your time"
And I whispered, "I can't wait!"
Ten years.
Seven moves.
Everything from a tiny one bedroom apartment to a rambling country house with broken windows.
Ten years.
Five jobs.
Unemployment with a toddler and 6 month pregnant wife.
Ten years.
Two kids.
Four surgeries.
We survived an underwater mortgage, a landlord who didn't believe in fixing things, countless ER visits, moving a grand piano over 2 inches of ice...
When we moved into the newly bought house in Charlotte, the previous owners had sworn to turn off the alarm service. They didn't. And as we struggled with boxes and a sobbing, tired baby boy and finding toilet paper, the alarm went off (and we're talking FOGHORN, people). And as my ears began to bleed and eight adults collapsed into balls of whimpering pain, I remembered that one of the owners had written a little code on a Post-It at closing and I knew where it was ---
-- and I turned off that Effing Alarm.
And my husband looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, "I have never loved you more than I do in this moment."
The police showed up twenty minutes later. They stood in the open doorway and one of the said, "Huh. This is the weirdest burglary I've ever seen. Ya'll are bringing the stuff IN?"
Ten years. We've survived (and in my case, that's a quite literal victory).
We've learned how to fight. We've had battles over important issues like Cake, Immigration Policy, the Cat, a Book, and Another Cake (for serious).
We've learned how to love. My introvert needs time and space. I need someone to take over slicing bread for guests after I cut my finger open with the bread knife.
We've learned how to balance, how to be Us, how to be Alone, how to be a Parent, how to Adult, how to be Ridiculous, how to be Honest and Ugly and Sorry and So Happy.
And we're still learning.
I should write something Romantic - about how he is still my Hero (he is), and how he makes me feel like a Queen (he does), and how our Love will Never Die (but we will).
What I remember is the way my stomach stopped churning when I heard his voice on the phone after a college student hit our car. He was coming to hold me, and that would be Enough.
I remember still shaking from shock from a bad emergency C-section, and they wheeled me into the post-op room, and I saw him holding our baby girl, safe and sound, and I saw how they looked at each other and I knew that would be Enough.
I kissed his cheek before they took me away for yet another surgery and I told him the God's honest truth: "You have made me happier than I ever thought possible." That would be Enough.
And when the post-partum anxiety was so bad that I didn't sleep for 4 days, he was there. He held me while I hallucinated. When I whispered, "I know the ceiling fan isn't a badger! I can fix this!", he stroked my hair and murmured, "Go to sleep, love. I've got you."
That damn badger was no match for him.
I guess what I wanted to say, for the record, is that the last ten years have been so much more wild and difficult that I could have ever guessed. And I have no doubt that the next 10 years will be just as mind boggling, because it is simply what our Life is.
But I know that when I roll over in the morning, my knee will accidentally collide with the sturdy back of a forgiving husband, the sort of man who will accept my mumbled apology and will roll over to kiss my forehead.
Then, he will whisper, "Coffee?"
And I will be Home.
I can't wait.
Sunday, June 19, 2016
NCIS: Cat Murder
When my daughter set off to preschool at the beginning of this year, I was forced to fill out an obscene amount of paperwork. A complete biography of our family, our educational values, our disciplinary measures, and our religious background, including the question, "Who is the authority in your household?"
I wrote, "The cat."
(Our favorite preschool teacher later informed me that other members of staff nearly spit their coffee across the classroom upon reading it.)
But it's really true. Bertie and Jeeves are pleased to have us around as staff, but we know exactly where we fall in the hierarchy. The cats come first, then the Daddy, the Princess, the Patient Boy, and that Person Who Does All the Other Work and is Constantly Stepping On Us.
In fact, when the Amazing Daddy leaves for work, the cats sit upon the mat and cry for about 15 minutes. Mind you, I'm still in the house, and willing to cuddle and stroke and talk, but I am not to be spoken to unless it is 2 am and I am the Insomniac on the Couch - in which case, it is their pleasure to give me something to do (i.e., pet them).
This is no exaggeration. This happened TODAY :
*blast. I am bad at the Interwebs and Techonology and I really am trying to post a video here, but it is angry with me. I'll try again in the morning. Seriously. It's after midnight. Nothing good ever happened on a computer after midnight.*
Bertie is the Loud One. Jeeves, our black kitty vampire, is less loquacious and more circumspect.
Lately, Jeeves has been unable to keep up with the absolutely enormous amount of fur he possesses. Our hardwood floors have Jeeves-puffs blowing by on a regular basis, like tumbleweeds on the open prairie. Husband tried to brush him, but the overwhelming volume was just beyond them both - and poor Jeeves was starting to suffer from constant hairballs and tangles and matting and general hygienic misery.
Something had to be done. Something drastic.
Tonight, we sheared him. We hauled out the hair trimmers and used that #2 guard and lopped off an entire Jeeves worth of fur. He wasn't happy, but he submitted, as though sensing the weight that was being literally lifted from his shoulders.
Then we washed him,which was NOT okay, and then we rinsed him, which means I will spend all of tomorrow de-Jeeves-ing the bathroom. Then we rubbed him until our towels were despaired of.
Then we brushed him again for twenty minutes.
And we STILL brushed off this much:
I think Jeeves may have a super power - SHEDDING.
But the BEST moment, the moment that made everything worth it, was the moment that Bertie wandered into the bathroom and saw the aftermath of the shearing:
And he stopped dead - like a really terrible, over-acting guest star on NCIS: Pet Edition. He jumped back and stared in horror at the fur on the floor. He might as well have fallen to his furry knees and screamed, "NOOOOOO!"
Then he spent two hours hissing at his brother, as though a Clean Jeeves was a Traitor Jeeves. Clean Jeeves was an impostor, or an alien!
Clean Jeeves, however, doesn't mind being hissed at, because I believe he feels immensely better. And after all that, he's not even close to being bald or hairless - just look at him!
I wrote, "The cat."
(Our favorite preschool teacher later informed me that other members of staff nearly spit their coffee across the classroom upon reading it.)
But it's really true. Bertie and Jeeves are pleased to have us around as staff, but we know exactly where we fall in the hierarchy. The cats come first, then the Daddy, the Princess, the Patient Boy, and that Person Who Does All the Other Work and is Constantly Stepping On Us.
In fact, when the Amazing Daddy leaves for work, the cats sit upon the mat and cry for about 15 minutes. Mind you, I'm still in the house, and willing to cuddle and stroke and talk, but I am not to be spoken to unless it is 2 am and I am the Insomniac on the Couch - in which case, it is their pleasure to give me something to do (i.e., pet them).
This is no exaggeration. This happened TODAY :
*blast. I am bad at the Interwebs and Techonology and I really am trying to post a video here, but it is angry with me. I'll try again in the morning. Seriously. It's after midnight. Nothing good ever happened on a computer after midnight.*
Bertie is the Loud One. Jeeves, our black kitty vampire, is less loquacious and more circumspect.
Lately, Jeeves has been unable to keep up with the absolutely enormous amount of fur he possesses. Our hardwood floors have Jeeves-puffs blowing by on a regular basis, like tumbleweeds on the open prairie. Husband tried to brush him, but the overwhelming volume was just beyond them both - and poor Jeeves was starting to suffer from constant hairballs and tangles and matting and general hygienic misery.
Something had to be done. Something drastic.
Tonight, we sheared him. We hauled out the hair trimmers and used that #2 guard and lopped off an entire Jeeves worth of fur. He wasn't happy, but he submitted, as though sensing the weight that was being literally lifted from his shoulders.
Then we washed him,which was NOT okay, and then we rinsed him, which means I will spend all of tomorrow de-Jeeves-ing the bathroom. Then we rubbed him until our towels were despaired of.
Then we brushed him again for twenty minutes.
And we STILL brushed off this much:
I think Jeeves may have a super power - SHEDDING.
But the BEST moment, the moment that made everything worth it, was the moment that Bertie wandered into the bathroom and saw the aftermath of the shearing:
And he stopped dead - like a really terrible, over-acting guest star on NCIS: Pet Edition. He jumped back and stared in horror at the fur on the floor. He might as well have fallen to his furry knees and screamed, "NOOOOOO!"
Then he spent two hours hissing at his brother, as though a Clean Jeeves was a Traitor Jeeves. Clean Jeeves was an impostor, or an alien!
Clean Jeeves, however, doesn't mind being hissed at, because I believe he feels immensely better. And after all that, he's not even close to being bald or hairless - just look at him!
He is not close to forgiveness either.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Girl
There's a ghost living in my house.
Hi, there. It's been a while, I know, but it was a long year of coming to terms with my finite self, which sounds super deep and mature, but is really just code for stayed-alive-because-I-hadn't-time-to-die. My doctors disagreed about how best to kill me. My careers imploded in a spectacularly pathetic manner. The second grader brought home enormous packets of volunteering opportunities because his elementary school is home to the most militant PTA I've ever had the misfortune to meet. The preschooler attended the local Catholic preschool, where she appalled everyone with her macabre interests and led me into accidental heresy by gifting me a handmade rosary which I mistook for a necklace, and then all the Catholic mommies stared aghast as I struggled to free my head from the rosary and I stammered, "Ha - ha - .... protestant problems...." and no one laughed (except the protestant teacher).
And then our landlord was all, "Hey - I wanna move back into my house - can you leave?" and then we found a house, and then it fell through because HELLO, asbestos check? - and then the house we managed to find last minute was torn apart by squatters and I had to scrub out the smoker smell and patch the holes in the walls and tape the broken windows and anyway --
I was just trying to say, blog readers, that I have missed you. And I owe you a ton of back stories.
But the most pressing issue at the moment is GIRL.
I need to explain as quickly as possible, because one never knows when that creepy violin music will begin and I'll be out of time ---
As I mentioned above, the new house is quite a fixer-upper, and since we are renting yet again, several issues must wait upon the landlord. The guest room has two enormous holes in the wall and is painted two shades of brown, so has been dubbed the Snickers Turd Suite. The upstairs drains are confused about where water is supposed to go (down - it goes down), and the light over the shower inexplicably turns on and off; I mean, middle of the night dear HEAVENLY-FATHER-DID-ALL-THE-LIGHTS-JUST-TURN-ON-BY-THEMSELVES?! Or, when one is halfway through shaving a leg (like, super gracefully), the lights suddenly turn off, and there's a very Hitchcok-ian moment where I rip the curtain asunder (while weilding a three-bladed Gillete) and scream, "WHO GOES THERE?"
It doesn't matter if the switch is on or off or halfway - it simply has no control over the light.
I mentioned this to Beloved Friend. Friend said, "Oh, you have an electrical problem."
"Have you met me?"
She immediately amended, "You're right. I was forgetting. You have a dark demonic force living in your bathroom."
Reader, she was right.
Since moving into the Yellow Castle-Tree-House, our five year old daughter has found a new friend. Her name is Girl. Girl is three, or four, or five - she has many birthdays. Girl likes particular foods, and despises other foods - and I know what you're thinking, but Girl has completely dissimilar tastes from our Princess Annie (her contract dictates that I use her correct title). She likes random colors, while Annie only like red. She has moods, and takes naps, and almost never comes with us on car rides.
Annie will inform me, "Girl says I should do this," or "Don't do that, Mommy. Girl doesn't like that." And while I like to chuckle and gently remind my daughter that we shouldn't do what the Voices tell us to do, there's always a moment of horrified silence. It wouldn't be so creepy if she would only grant this mysterious friend a name, but Girl is apparently very reticent about monikers.
She is Girl.
Creepy, right?
It gets better.
My almost-eight-year-old son, who is Very Responsible and a Medium-Sized Man now (not to be confused with the endearment "Little Man", which is not appropriate for 7 year olds), came to me this evening for his nightly hug and kiss before bed. He overheard me explaining the mysterious Girl to our visiting Grandma.
"Girl," I muttered, "is Annie's creepiest friend to date. I didn't mind the Baby Brother she carried around, or the Dragon with no mercy. But this Girl is weird."
"Hey!" Jack cried. "You don't need to worry about Girl. We were talking about her yesterday."
"Oh... yeah?"
"Yeah! We were playing, and I told her to go away and play with Girl, and Annie said, "GIRL IS DEAD."
*silence*
"That doesn't make me feel better, buddy."
"Oh. Okay. Goodnight!"
Right. Like I'm going to be able to go to sleep now. Or ever.
*if I should die under mysterious circumstances, do not enter the Master Bathroom. It's because of Girl, not because it's a total mess. Mostly.*
Hi, there. It's been a while, I know, but it was a long year of coming to terms with my finite self, which sounds super deep and mature, but is really just code for stayed-alive-because-I-hadn't-time-to-die. My doctors disagreed about how best to kill me. My careers imploded in a spectacularly pathetic manner. The second grader brought home enormous packets of volunteering opportunities because his elementary school is home to the most militant PTA I've ever had the misfortune to meet. The preschooler attended the local Catholic preschool, where she appalled everyone with her macabre interests and led me into accidental heresy by gifting me a handmade rosary which I mistook for a necklace, and then all the Catholic mommies stared aghast as I struggled to free my head from the rosary and I stammered, "Ha - ha - .... protestant problems...." and no one laughed (except the protestant teacher).
And then our landlord was all, "Hey - I wanna move back into my house - can you leave?" and then we found a house, and then it fell through because HELLO, asbestos check? - and then the house we managed to find last minute was torn apart by squatters and I had to scrub out the smoker smell and patch the holes in the walls and tape the broken windows and anyway --
I was just trying to say, blog readers, that I have missed you. And I owe you a ton of back stories.
But the most pressing issue at the moment is GIRL.
I need to explain as quickly as possible, because one never knows when that creepy violin music will begin and I'll be out of time ---
As I mentioned above, the new house is quite a fixer-upper, and since we are renting yet again, several issues must wait upon the landlord. The guest room has two enormous holes in the wall and is painted two shades of brown, so has been dubbed the Snickers Turd Suite. The upstairs drains are confused about where water is supposed to go (down - it goes down), and the light over the shower inexplicably turns on and off; I mean, middle of the night dear HEAVENLY-FATHER-DID-ALL-THE-LIGHTS-JUST-TURN-ON-BY-THEMSELVES?! Or, when one is halfway through shaving a leg (like, super gracefully), the lights suddenly turn off, and there's a very Hitchcok-ian moment where I rip the curtain asunder (while weilding a three-bladed Gillete) and scream, "WHO GOES THERE?"
It doesn't matter if the switch is on or off or halfway - it simply has no control over the light.
I mentioned this to Beloved Friend. Friend said, "Oh, you have an electrical problem."
"Have you met me?"
She immediately amended, "You're right. I was forgetting. You have a dark demonic force living in your bathroom."
Reader, she was right.
Since moving into the Yellow Castle-Tree-House, our five year old daughter has found a new friend. Her name is Girl. Girl is three, or four, or five - she has many birthdays. Girl likes particular foods, and despises other foods - and I know what you're thinking, but Girl has completely dissimilar tastes from our Princess Annie (her contract dictates that I use her correct title). She likes random colors, while Annie only like red. She has moods, and takes naps, and almost never comes with us on car rides.
Annie will inform me, "Girl says I should do this," or "Don't do that, Mommy. Girl doesn't like that." And while I like to chuckle and gently remind my daughter that we shouldn't do what the Voices tell us to do, there's always a moment of horrified silence. It wouldn't be so creepy if she would only grant this mysterious friend a name, but Girl is apparently very reticent about monikers.
She is Girl.
Creepy, right?
It gets better.
My almost-eight-year-old son, who is Very Responsible and a Medium-Sized Man now (not to be confused with the endearment "Little Man", which is not appropriate for 7 year olds), came to me this evening for his nightly hug and kiss before bed. He overheard me explaining the mysterious Girl to our visiting Grandma.
"Girl," I muttered, "is Annie's creepiest friend to date. I didn't mind the Baby Brother she carried around, or the Dragon with no mercy. But this Girl is weird."
"Hey!" Jack cried. "You don't need to worry about Girl. We were talking about her yesterday."
"Oh... yeah?"
"Yeah! We were playing, and I told her to go away and play with Girl, and Annie said, "GIRL IS DEAD."
*silence*
"That doesn't make me feel better, buddy."
"Oh. Okay. Goodnight!"
Right. Like I'm going to be able to go to sleep now. Or ever.
*if I should die under mysterious circumstances, do not enter the Master Bathroom. It's because of Girl, not because it's a total mess. Mostly.*
Monday, November 2, 2015
That's True. So True.
Scene I: A messy kitchen on a morning before school; Mommy is finishing packing her son's lunch and trying to find a container big enough for all the Halloween candy that has taken over her house. She grabs a brown chest and begins to dump out the assorted stickers. Son enters, Stage Right.)
"Mommy, why are you emptying the Treasure Box?"
(Please don't make me talk about this.)
"Because."
"Because you don't have any piano students?"
(Really? We're going to talk about the fact that my blasted infirmities have robbed me of my career, my vitality, even my sense of humor? And my favorite students? We're going to talk about this at 7:41 a.m.?! )
"That's right."
"So you - " he paused over the big word, " - cancelled your studio?"
(Sure, kid. Twist the knife.) "Yes."
Pause.
(... It's ridiculous how much this hurts. Please go away.)
"But you're getting better now."
(Slowly but surely - now that I've cancelled my whole life.) "That's true. I am getting better."
Son dashes across the kitchen and throws his arms around Mommy with enthusiasm. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"
Mommy nearly falls over, startled. "For what?"
"For getting better!" Son beams with his father's beautiful smile. "Because I want to play with you!"
"Oh. And I can play with you now?"
"Yes! Because you don't need to sleep as much anymore!"
(That's true, little man.) "That's true."
"Mommy, why are you emptying the Treasure Box?"
(Please don't make me talk about this.)
"Because."
"Because you don't have any piano students?"
(Really? We're going to talk about the fact that my blasted infirmities have robbed me of my career, my vitality, even my sense of humor? And my favorite students? We're going to talk about this at 7:41 a.m.?! )
"That's right."
"So you - " he paused over the big word, " - cancelled your studio?"
(Sure, kid. Twist the knife.) "Yes."
Pause.
(... It's ridiculous how much this hurts. Please go away.)
"But you're getting better now."
(Slowly but surely - now that I've cancelled my whole life.) "That's true. I am getting better."
Son dashes across the kitchen and throws his arms around Mommy with enthusiasm. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"
Mommy nearly falls over, startled. "For what?"
"For getting better!" Son beams with his father's beautiful smile. "Because I want to play with you!"
"Oh. And I can play with you now?"
"Yes! Because you don't need to sleep as much anymore!"
(That's true, little man.) "That's true."
Monday, August 3, 2015
In Defense of Procreation: Part I
"The Time has come," the walrus said, "to Talk of Many Things,
We Might Want to Have Kids -
So Convince Me This is A Good Idea - "
"Well..." I answered slowly, "mine just spent four days at their grandmother's so that we could see if eleven prescription drugs could get my migraines under control and guess what? I'd forgotten that you can watch movies without closed captions! Did you know that characters have VOICES?! That there is such a thing as sound design?"
"Er..." my friend (who is not a walrus) answered.
"SOUND DESIGN!!" and then I cackled a little too maniacally because really, I haven't blogged in two months because I've been bouncing from one neurologist to another while they all poked me and stuffed me into machines and went "OOOH!" and "Huh" and "That's rare" and "That shouldn't do that" and "You hallucinate WHAT?" and finally just pushed me on to another doctor because none of them are Dr. House and they are not interested by my rare condition. They are annoyed that I won't fit in their boxes or respond as I ought to their medications. The last doctor simply called me a "unicorn" and said we were in waters, so "let's try some stuff and be patient".
Where was I? Right.
I owe my friend. I owe all my friends. I owe every reader who has ever skimmed this blog and laughed at my stories of poo and thought, 'Thank heaven I have no offspring' because frankly, I've done you a disservice. You deserve all the same misery I've had. More than that, you deserve all the same joys.
It isn't really a good idea to have kids.
It's the most crazy, fabulously adventurous thing two people can do.
So you really ought to try it.
Why?
Reason #1: Your children will show you the Worst of Yourself. And the Best.
Sure, the first thing you may hear in the morning is sarcasm. Your six year old may be helping his little sister get breakfast cereal, and she may be demanding 2% milk, and he may suddenly sigh and snap, "Well, we are out of that milk and I am not a magician so I can't just make it appear!" And you think to yourself, 'That is absolutely my fault. Sorry, kid'.
And perhaps, later on, while he attempts to set the kitchen timer on the microwave, he will fall into your habit of yelling at inanimate objects: "NO, MICROWAVE, NO! NOT COOK! JUST TIMER! DO NOT COOK! AAARGH!"
This may be the moment you despair. You may think, 'I am not fit to care for children. I have harmed society by allowing my DNA to replicate. Perhaps it isn't too late to find a good home for them - they are cute and housebroken, after all."
But then, there is a moment when you hear your son playing a game with his sister where he is obviously cheating FOR her, so that she will win. He whispers the answers to her, and when she calls them out, he praises her to the skies as the smartest little girl he knows. Then he reads out loud to her and gets her a snack while Mommy has to lay in the dark bedroom with her Superhero mask (blackout sleep mask). And when your son comes in to check on your headache and kisses your cheek, you think, 'Well, I suppose I haven't done the worst job ever.'
Then he clinches it by asking:
"Can I make you a sandwich? Would that make your headache better?"
In his defense, not one neurologist offered that as a cure for migraine, so for all we know, it could very well be the missing link.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that kids are a little bit like marriage - the force you to face yourself every single day in a brutally honest way. The make you grow up in tough ways, in good ways, in hard ways, in beautiful ways.
I highly recommend it.
Of course, your other kid may flash half the church with her new dress during the Lord's Prayer, and you will spend the rest of the service in a silent facepalm of shame, but hey! A little humility is good for us all.
We Might Want to Have Kids -
So Convince Me This is A Good Idea - "
"Well..." I answered slowly, "mine just spent four days at their grandmother's so that we could see if eleven prescription drugs could get my migraines under control and guess what? I'd forgotten that you can watch movies without closed captions! Did you know that characters have VOICES?! That there is such a thing as sound design?"
"Er..." my friend (who is not a walrus) answered.
"SOUND DESIGN!!" and then I cackled a little too maniacally because really, I haven't blogged in two months because I've been bouncing from one neurologist to another while they all poked me and stuffed me into machines and went "OOOH!" and "Huh" and "That's rare" and "That shouldn't do that" and "You hallucinate WHAT?" and finally just pushed me on to another doctor because none of them are Dr. House and they are not interested by my rare condition. They are annoyed that I won't fit in their boxes or respond as I ought to their medications. The last doctor simply called me a "unicorn" and said we were in waters, so "let's try some stuff and be patient".
Where was I? Right.
I owe my friend. I owe all my friends. I owe every reader who has ever skimmed this blog and laughed at my stories of poo and thought, 'Thank heaven I have no offspring' because frankly, I've done you a disservice. You deserve all the same misery I've had. More than that, you deserve all the same joys.
It isn't really a good idea to have kids.
It's the most crazy, fabulously adventurous thing two people can do.
So you really ought to try it.
Why?
Reason #1: Your children will show you the Worst of Yourself. And the Best.
Sure, the first thing you may hear in the morning is sarcasm. Your six year old may be helping his little sister get breakfast cereal, and she may be demanding 2% milk, and he may suddenly sigh and snap, "Well, we are out of that milk and I am not a magician so I can't just make it appear!" And you think to yourself, 'That is absolutely my fault. Sorry, kid'.
And perhaps, later on, while he attempts to set the kitchen timer on the microwave, he will fall into your habit of yelling at inanimate objects: "NO, MICROWAVE, NO! NOT COOK! JUST TIMER! DO NOT COOK! AAARGH!"
This may be the moment you despair. You may think, 'I am not fit to care for children. I have harmed society by allowing my DNA to replicate. Perhaps it isn't too late to find a good home for them - they are cute and housebroken, after all."
But then, there is a moment when you hear your son playing a game with his sister where he is obviously cheating FOR her, so that she will win. He whispers the answers to her, and when she calls them out, he praises her to the skies as the smartest little girl he knows. Then he reads out loud to her and gets her a snack while Mommy has to lay in the dark bedroom with her Superhero mask (blackout sleep mask). And when your son comes in to check on your headache and kisses your cheek, you think, 'Well, I suppose I haven't done the worst job ever.'
Then he clinches it by asking:
"Can I make you a sandwich? Would that make your headache better?"
In his defense, not one neurologist offered that as a cure for migraine, so for all we know, it could very well be the missing link.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that kids are a little bit like marriage - the force you to face yourself every single day in a brutally honest way. The make you grow up in tough ways, in good ways, in hard ways, in beautiful ways.
I highly recommend it.
Of course, your other kid may flash half the church with her new dress during the Lord's Prayer, and you will spend the rest of the service in a silent facepalm of shame, but hey! A little humility is good for us all.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
God is a Ninja
"WHERE IS GOD?!" the four year old demanded from her throne (car seat). Her tone would allow no pathetic minion to fail in producing her desire immediately. "Where is he?"
Her wise, older brother rolled his eyes, for, being seven, he was infinitely more knowledgeable in the ways of the world. "God," he declared sagely, "is invisible."
"What," his sister asked, "does that mean?"
"It means you can't see him."
Silence.
Then, the Princess declared with a logician's confidence: "God is a ninja."
"WHAT?!" her brother cried. "No he isn't!"
"Yes! Yes, he is!" she argued, "because I can't see him!"
"MOMMY! Tell her that God is not a ninja!"
Her wise, older brother rolled his eyes, for, being seven, he was infinitely more knowledgeable in the ways of the world. "God," he declared sagely, "is invisible."
"What," his sister asked, "does that mean?"
"It means you can't see him."
Silence.
Then, the Princess declared with a logician's confidence: "God is a ninja."
"WHAT?!" her brother cried. "No he isn't!"
"Yes! Yes, he is!" she argued, "because I can't see him!"
"MOMMY! Tell her that God is not a ninja!"
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