I'm not a scrooge, I swear. It's just that I really don't care about a lot of the conventional structures and traditions of a materialistic consumer society. (I type as my gaze drifts to the cheesy wrapping paper strewn across the floor by my child in an effort to view her gifts in the best possible light of the gray morning.) That, and I'm lazy.
Being lazy isn't something that anyone likes to admit, but it's time that I own up. Of the five years I have lived here we had a real tree three of those Christmases. Our first Christmas here, Em's dad was still a bigger part of my life and he was here to haul the tree in, and then when it was all over, haul it back out to the curb when all was said and done. By the time our second Christmas rolled around, he wasn't here as much. So, the tree made it up and decorated about two days before Christmas. When February rolled around it was still set up. So I did what any sleep-deprived, single, impatient, lazy mother would do and moved it out onto the back porch. Where it stayed for another month until my dear friend Miles came to visit. Miles is like a house elf. You leave for work and when you get home the dishes are done, the stains in the carpet are gone, and so is the Christmas tree. As embarassing as still having a Christmas tree in March may have been, you would think I would have learned my lesson, right? Apparently not. The third Christmas, something very similar happened, except instead of Miles or some other blessed soul coming along to the rescue, I got a warning letter from the landlords saying something to the extent of: "Dear Tenant, while we understand people have busy lives it is utterly ridiculous that your tree is still on your back porch. It's March for cryin out loud, what the hell are you thinking? It's a fire hazard. Get your lazy ass out there and take care of it, chump. But don't put it in the dumpster or we will fine your ass. Happy Spring, and thank you for renting from us." What's a carless Mama to do? (Although I felt much better upon noticing that there were at least four other apartments in the same predicament as me...) I couldn't put it in the dumpster. Correction, I couldn't put it in MY dumpster. So naturally, after a beer or two too many, my friend and I, decked out in black, hauled it to the other apartment complex's dumpster in the middle of the night. I know, I know, how immature but it was fun. And really, how amused would you be to take your garbage out in late March and find a tree there? I would be thrilled. It's like a little reminder of all the holiday joy you shared with your family. Or-if your like me-a nice metaphor for the stress headache you accumulated during the holiday and how you need to let it go, trash it, dump it, just say bye-bye to it.
Last year I thought I was out-smarting my laziness and refusal to dispose of trees and I bought a cheap plastic one instead. First of all, it smelled like plastic, not that awesome pine smell. And it just looked stupid. But I was able to just fold it up and put it in my outdoor storage shed, and did so before the end of January, until the next year. That would be this year.
Now it is at this point I should remind anyone who may be reading that I have the worlds most successful mother when it comes to passing on paranoia and anxiety. My mother is totally convinced that there are mice in the storage units. And she very well could be right. She is also very sure that I will contract the deadly Hanta virus from these supposed creatures that may or may not be there. And she points this out every time the subject of that damn shed comes up. I usually do a pretty good impression of the disgusted teenage daughter with my eye roll and "yeah mom, got it."
This year, Emily and I are sipping hot cocoa, listening to christmas music, and excited to decorate. I pull the tree out of storage, carefully listening for the pitter patter of little rodent feet. I pull the tree inside, set it up and we decorate. Then my mothers paranoid voice pops into my head, yet again, with the anxiety stemming from the possibility of mice in the storage. Because naturally that would mean we are all going to die from the Hanta virus. I look over to the sliding glass door and see little specs on the carpet. Oh dear god, no. Mouse poop. Little turdlets that I can only assume have fallen out of the tree and are now on my carpet, not to mention the little Hanta germies all over my hands and clothes, and Emily. So I, being rational, flip the fuck out, throw the tree on the back porch, make Emily wash her hands, strip her clothes and shower off. I vaccum about five hundred times. Emily finds one more on the carpet, picks it up and says "I found one Momma!" Ack! Noooo! Red alert! Red alert! "Emily, put that down right now and go wash your hands again!" She ignores me and instead starts laughing hysterically at me. I am confused, I can't figure out why. She puts her hand on her hip, screws up her face into her best 17 and smarter than you expression and says "Mom! This is bark dust from the plant you tripped over on the way in with the tree! Gimme a break!"
Oh. Haha. I knew that.
Now, the day after Christmas, I yet again have a tree on my back porch. It's plastic and smells bad and is sitting in the exact spot it landed when I threw it out the door in my hanta-horror. I wonder how long it will be there this year...
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Confessions of a closeted 14 year old girl
So, sharing my child with her other parent is one big learning experience after another. A lesson in patience here, logic and reasoning there, and then there are times when I am just left confused as to why anyone would think certain things he does are a good idea.
Example: Letting a 5 year old watch High School Musical, Hannah Montana, Sonny With a Chance, or Grease.
Now, some of the above, such as Grease, may be a classic that we all remember singing along to growing up, however, the thing to emphasize here is that when I watched Grease, I was old to know what a virgin is, and get that they were saying Sandra D is a nerd for not going "to bed till she's legally wed", and also stable enough in my own opinions to think that was rather callous of them to sing about in public when the poor girl needed a friend. It was funny though, and catchy and overall a good movie. But. Not coming out of my sweet little girls mouth. Have you ever watched the faces of people in the grocery store when they are ogling at the fact your five year old is dancing around singing "Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity, Won't go to bed till I'm legally wed, I can't, I'm Sandra Dee, Watch it, hey, I'm Doris Day, I was not brought up that way..." while she swoons over the Robert Pattinson display? It really makes people question your parenting ability at times. Actually, screw other people, it makes me question it too. It is just a little nerve-crawling, teeth-grinding inducingingly creepy to hear out of her mouth.
Let's move on to the Disney pop princesses now shall we? Now, originally, I was tolerant of Hannah Montana. The content was, while being developmentally WAY older than five years old, decent for the most part. The thing I have a problem with is the whole sending messages to my beautiful, unique little girl about how she should look and act to fit in. Because that is just bull shit. (That is also a blog topic for another time. One I do believe I have touched on in the past, here. ) The thing that really annoys me now is that they all are little rock stars in the making. With those crappy, pop, catchy songs that get stuck in my head so damn easily. Most of them most likely didn't write their own songs, probably don't know how to play the bass guitar they are clutching in that music video, and by the way, thanks for teaching a new way to waggle your hips to my tiny little dancer. (I am comforted by the fact that Emily will also croon along with Dean Martin, wail along with the Beatles, and can rock along with Ani DiFranco too)
But I have a confession to make. I secretly enjoy some of it. *gasp*. Not because I think it is GOOD, people, but because it is so easy to dance all sloppy like around my living room to. Emily and I have dance-time when we are too amped up or sad or angry or frustrated, where we turn off the lights and dance. For someone who isn't a dancer or a singer, some of this crap is really easy to move to. In private. NEVER in public. And, while I am being honest and confessing, I, against my will, get sucked into those evil little shows. It dawned on me last night as Emily and I were watching Wizards of Waverly Place (on YouTube, helping people too cheap or totally against paying for cable still get indoctrinated with the media's subtle brainwashing every day!) that I was laughing at the show! Granted, it was only a small chuckle, but it was enough to make it impossible to ignore that I was sucked into these adolescent plot lines and actually did want Sonny and Chad to FINALLY admit they like each other.
I'M DOOMED! There must be help for people like me somewhere, right? I mean, what if I can't shake it? What if I find myself late at night watching entire SEASONS of this crap, by myself? I will buy those teeny bopper magazines with the pictures of the latest, trendiest stars, and cut out pictures of my, I mean EMILY'S, favorite ones. I will purchase all of their cheaply produced albums, put them all on my ipod to bop along to everywhere I go, they will replace the Elliot Smith, the Patsy Cline, and the Weezer. (NOOoooo! Not the Weezer!) Will I end up as one of those Twilight Mom's that stormed the set of the latest greatest teen obsession to the extremity that they had to beef up on security to keep them away? I can see it now. I will just pop into Starbucks after dropping Em off at school for the day to get my non-fat no foam vanilla latte, and then on the sly, while everyone else thinks I am at a meeting, I will creep over to the super secret filming location where I meet up with my other crazed, stuck-in-their-adolesence moms. Together, in our skinny jeans and puffy jackets with fur around the collar, that we 'borrowed' out of our daughter's closets, we will stalk the stars of the show and sip latte's until we absolutely have to peel ourselves away to go pick up our children. But not before changing into our business suits and mussing our hair just enough to look like we have been stuck in a board room reviewing next year's budget. (Numbers always make my eyes glaze over and my brain go numb.) Emily will have no idea until she goes to retrieve that puffy jacket for a night out with her friends and finds the map to the set in the pocket and the magazine cut out of the hunky teenage star that will be half my age (worn at the edges and creased from gazing at it for hours on end, of course).
I can't let this happen to me! I have to get back to my bitter, "pop-culture is lame" self. I mean, I OWN SKINNY JEANS ALREADY! That is just another step closer. I must find some sort of outpatient recovery program that will prescribe hours of listening to the Pixies and Ramones, we will watch avant-garde films like Tank Girl, and sing rebellious, angry girl music around the camp fire. It may cost me the equivalent of four of those low budget bubble gum pop films, but it will be worth it in the end.
I fully intend to do this. Right after Vanessa leaves town. We have plans to see New Moon this weekend...
Don't judge. Or judge, but still LOoooOOOVe me despite my weaknesses.
Example: Letting a 5 year old watch High School Musical, Hannah Montana, Sonny With a Chance, or Grease.
Now, some of the above, such as Grease, may be a classic that we all remember singing along to growing up, however, the thing to emphasize here is that when I watched Grease, I was old to know what a virgin is, and get that they were saying Sandra D is a nerd for not going "to bed till she's legally wed", and also stable enough in my own opinions to think that was rather callous of them to sing about in public when the poor girl needed a friend. It was funny though, and catchy and overall a good movie. But. Not coming out of my sweet little girls mouth. Have you ever watched the faces of people in the grocery store when they are ogling at the fact your five year old is dancing around singing "Look at me, I'm Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity, Won't go to bed till I'm legally wed, I can't, I'm Sandra Dee, Watch it, hey, I'm Doris Day, I was not brought up that way..." while she swoons over the Robert Pattinson display? It really makes people question your parenting ability at times. Actually, screw other people, it makes me question it too. It is just a little nerve-crawling, teeth-grinding inducingingly creepy to hear out of her mouth.
Let's move on to the Disney pop princesses now shall we? Now, originally, I was tolerant of Hannah Montana. The content was, while being developmentally WAY older than five years old, decent for the most part. The thing I have a problem with is the whole sending messages to my beautiful, unique little girl about how she should look and act to fit in. Because that is just bull shit. (That is also a blog topic for another time. One I do believe I have touched on in the past, here. ) The thing that really annoys me now is that they all are little rock stars in the making. With those crappy, pop, catchy songs that get stuck in my head so damn easily. Most of them most likely didn't write their own songs, probably don't know how to play the bass guitar they are clutching in that music video, and by the way, thanks for teaching a new way to waggle your hips to my tiny little dancer. (I am comforted by the fact that Emily will also croon along with Dean Martin, wail along with the Beatles, and can rock along with Ani DiFranco too)
But I have a confession to make. I secretly enjoy some of it. *gasp*. Not because I think it is GOOD, people, but because it is so easy to dance all sloppy like around my living room to. Emily and I have dance-time when we are too amped up or sad or angry or frustrated, where we turn off the lights and dance. For someone who isn't a dancer or a singer, some of this crap is really easy to move to. In private. NEVER in public. And, while I am being honest and confessing, I, against my will, get sucked into those evil little shows. It dawned on me last night as Emily and I were watching Wizards of Waverly Place (on YouTube, helping people too cheap or totally against paying for cable still get indoctrinated with the media's subtle brainwashing every day!) that I was laughing at the show! Granted, it was only a small chuckle, but it was enough to make it impossible to ignore that I was sucked into these adolescent plot lines and actually did want Sonny and Chad to FINALLY admit they like each other.
I'M DOOMED! There must be help for people like me somewhere, right? I mean, what if I can't shake it? What if I find myself late at night watching entire SEASONS of this crap, by myself? I will buy those teeny bopper magazines with the pictures of the latest, trendiest stars, and cut out pictures of my, I mean EMILY'S, favorite ones. I will purchase all of their cheaply produced albums, put them all on my ipod to bop along to everywhere I go, they will replace the Elliot Smith, the Patsy Cline, and the Weezer. (NOOoooo! Not the Weezer!) Will I end up as one of those Twilight Mom's that stormed the set of the latest greatest teen obsession to the extremity that they had to beef up on security to keep them away? I can see it now. I will just pop into Starbucks after dropping Em off at school for the day to get my non-fat no foam vanilla latte, and then on the sly, while everyone else thinks I am at a meeting, I will creep over to the super secret filming location where I meet up with my other crazed, stuck-in-their-adolesence moms. Together, in our skinny jeans and puffy jackets with fur around the collar, that we 'borrowed' out of our daughter's closets, we will stalk the stars of the show and sip latte's until we absolutely have to peel ourselves away to go pick up our children. But not before changing into our business suits and mussing our hair just enough to look like we have been stuck in a board room reviewing next year's budget. (Numbers always make my eyes glaze over and my brain go numb.) Emily will have no idea until she goes to retrieve that puffy jacket for a night out with her friends and finds the map to the set in the pocket and the magazine cut out of the hunky teenage star that will be half my age (worn at the edges and creased from gazing at it for hours on end, of course).
I can't let this happen to me! I have to get back to my bitter, "pop-culture is lame" self. I mean, I OWN SKINNY JEANS ALREADY! That is just another step closer. I must find some sort of outpatient recovery program that will prescribe hours of listening to the Pixies and Ramones, we will watch avant-garde films like Tank Girl, and sing rebellious, angry girl music around the camp fire. It may cost me the equivalent of four of those low budget bubble gum pop films, but it will be worth it in the end.
I fully intend to do this. Right after Vanessa leaves town. We have plans to see New Moon this weekend...
Don't judge. Or judge, but still LOoooOOOVe me despite my weaknesses.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Do I choose door number 1, 2 or 3?
My child is amazing. She astounds me on a daily basis with her wisdom and love for the world. Her innocent optimism infects me in the best kind of way. I want to fold myself around her and protect her from the things in this world that are going to try and teach her otherwise. What parent wants to watch the world take swing after swing at their babies? If I knew it would work without a) making my child hate me and b) turning me into one of those paranoid, overbearing parents that annoy me so much, I would totally try to ward off all the bad things.
This is one thing in my mind that just aboslutely sucks ass about being a parent. It is completely counter-intuitive to NOT protect our little ones, but in some instances where if we do, we are actually doing our children a huge disservice. Yes, that kid in the lunchroom who made fun of her food allergies set off the Mama Bear in me, but if I were to go and tell him what I really think of his attitude I would embarrass my child, she wouldn't have the opportunity to tell this brat to fuck off in her own little polite and diplomatic way she inherited from lord knows who, and I would probably be barred from the premises. Not to mention I would be setting her up, if this became a pattern, to believe that she doesn't have to know how to and feel comfortable sticking up for herself because there will always be someone there looking out for her best interests. Which, in my experience, is a big fat lie. No one looks out for my best interests other than me. And my mom, sometimes, when I let her. (But really, that is HER idea of MY best interest, which most often just frustrates me because, hello! I am not her! And I have a completely different idea of what my best interests are.)
Part of raising a child to be a capable and functioning individual is to help them learn how to deal with REAL life. And unfortunately, REAL life is painful and unfair, and gross sometimes. But something I am realizing more and more all the time is that because I am able to feel the pain, the disproportionate doling out of resources, and am still able to feel nauseated at the grossness, I am able to appreciate the beauty, the joy, the awesomeness. That being said, there are times when I watch Emily process one of those painful lessons about the world and it literally hurts to not sweep her up in my arms and lullaby the pain away, or tell her that things aren't REALLY the way they are. But at the end of the day, that little shit on the playground who bullied all the other kids to get the good toys still serves as a perfect example that some people on this earth really are selfish individuals, not just having a bad day.
I mean really. Let's examine my options here. 1) I could lie to her all her life about how rosy the world is and then she will spread her wings and go out on her own and BAM! the real world blinds her. 2) I could coddle her through it all, solve the problems for her, not let her do anything for herself and have that grown child in her 30's who hates me for never giving her the room to explore on her own but is too scared from absorbing MY fear and issues with the world that she won't want to give life a go her own way, even if I would let her. And then there is 3) where I try to strike a balance between protecting, or softening the blow and allowing her to try things on her own. Which I am told is the healthiest option by that little voice in my head.
Now, option one is kinda cool because it means that I also would get to pretend, for the next ten years or so, that life is coming up ROSES! I could ignore my own little issues and devote myself to making things nothing but happy and perfect for her. The downside being that, oh yeah, perfect doesn't exist, and even if it does somewhere, it's just more work than I think I am cut out for. Plus, I have friends who were raised in a family where this was the chosen route and boy howdy, can we say 'socially naive to the point of pain'? I don't want my daughter to be so naive when she is an adult that everything less than what I told her the world was causes her pain or confusion. Coming to grips with those situations are hard, whether you are a child or an adult. But the difference is, when you are a child, it is something like "Hey, that kid hasn't yet learned to think of others and is in turn, treating me like poo and taking all the good toys/crackers/swings and saying things that feel awful to hear." To which the supportive adults help her voice what sucks about the situation to that kid, and she learns how to stick up for herself. As an adult it is something more like "Hey, that shithead is selfish and the things he says are manipulative and abusive and degrading to me." Now, I don't know about anyone else but if my adult daughter encounters that second situation in life, which I really hope she never does, I want her to be able to fall back on those less painful situations from growing up that taught her to BELIEVE that she deserves better, and that while people can be shitty, it doesn't mean she has to tolerate them. I want her to know how to walk away and expect better, but not be naive in building her life around her.
And I have no doubt in my mind that I am fully capable of providing option number two. I find myself on the brink of it all the time. It's all innocent now, which is why it is so easy to want to do all the work for her. "You can't reach the napkins and don't want to sit up to do so? Oh, let me get one for you!" or "You can't simply muster the energy to put this pile of dirty clothes in the hamper ten feet down the hall? That's ok, I'll just take them on down, I need to do laundry anyhow." The problem with this is that the situation gradually gets less and less innocent or benign. "Your teacher has you sitting next to someone who cheats off your work and your getting in trouble for it? Well, I'll just march in there and tell him what I think about that" (this is fairly innocent and benign, but what is wrong with your child knowing how to speak up a little and say "I didn't LET him copy my paper!") and then before you know it has become "What? You didn't want to pay that bill four months in a row and now you have no heat? Oh, just let me pay for that for you even though I am broke broke broke!" I know this sounds extreme, but I have seen living examples of this, which is maybe why I am a wee bit sensitive about this one. There is nothing more frustrating to someone who has grown up having to work for what they have than to watch a grown adult not even try to make things work, and just expect that someone will be there to bail them out. I have no problem with help from parents when it is needed but this situation is way too extreme. The child can't stand the parents because they are overbearing, they fret about everything, and they make demands on how the child is living like they have a say. Which you know, if mom and dad are paying Juniors rent every month, maybe they kind of do. But Junior EXPECTS it and is so ungrateful and rude about it that it's painful to watch. Not to mention, what happens when mom and dad really can't fork out the money junior needs? Or talk that infuriated boss/friend/co-worker down? Junior has to be able to cope, yo!
Now, I know that I outline options one and two to the extreme. But bear with me. This brings us to option number three. There will always be situations in which it is appropriate to protect your child from something in life. This is the basis for movie ratings, car seats, and pasteurized dairy products on a very practical level. (Although, really, I couldn't see American Beauty because it was rated R, but I could watch Empire Records which was riddled with messages about gambling, drugs, sex and all sorts of subversive rebellious things that could have potentially given me all sorts of ideas...and have you watched Pee Wee Herman as an adult? Talk about adult content. Sheesh. But I digress). And there will also always be times when it is appropriate to do something for your child. I mean, maybe she really CAN'T reach the napkins, do you really want that neon colored cookie frosting all over your house? I didn't think so. And, what happens when your child DOES stick up to that bully and she gets in trouble for it? Because I know that when my daughter was shamed for asking someone to quit making fun of her lunch, I was more than happy to go to bat for her. I don't want anyone to tell her that it isn't ok to stick up for herself.
So here I am, dancing that balance. And hoping with all my might that I am a good enough balancing act to keep my childs therapy bills on the lower end when she has to work through all the trauma I cause. I can hear it now. "And then *sob* she just stood there while I fumbled for words when this kid *sob* said really awful things to me, and *hiccup* she made me tell him what I thought and felt before she would step in and tell him offfffffff! *more sobbing*"
If you need me, I'll be the parent in the back biting my nails while watching my child give that little snot who kicked her a lesson in what's what.
This is one thing in my mind that just aboslutely sucks ass about being a parent. It is completely counter-intuitive to NOT protect our little ones, but in some instances where if we do, we are actually doing our children a huge disservice. Yes, that kid in the lunchroom who made fun of her food allergies set off the Mama Bear in me, but if I were to go and tell him what I really think of his attitude I would embarrass my child, she wouldn't have the opportunity to tell this brat to fuck off in her own little polite and diplomatic way she inherited from lord knows who, and I would probably be barred from the premises. Not to mention I would be setting her up, if this became a pattern, to believe that she doesn't have to know how to and feel comfortable sticking up for herself because there will always be someone there looking out for her best interests. Which, in my experience, is a big fat lie. No one looks out for my best interests other than me. And my mom, sometimes, when I let her. (But really, that is HER idea of MY best interest, which most often just frustrates me because, hello! I am not her! And I have a completely different idea of what my best interests are.)
Part of raising a child to be a capable and functioning individual is to help them learn how to deal with REAL life. And unfortunately, REAL life is painful and unfair, and gross sometimes. But something I am realizing more and more all the time is that because I am able to feel the pain, the disproportionate doling out of resources, and am still able to feel nauseated at the grossness, I am able to appreciate the beauty, the joy, the awesomeness. That being said, there are times when I watch Emily process one of those painful lessons about the world and it literally hurts to not sweep her up in my arms and lullaby the pain away, or tell her that things aren't REALLY the way they are. But at the end of the day, that little shit on the playground who bullied all the other kids to get the good toys still serves as a perfect example that some people on this earth really are selfish individuals, not just having a bad day.
I mean really. Let's examine my options here. 1) I could lie to her all her life about how rosy the world is and then she will spread her wings and go out on her own and BAM! the real world blinds her. 2) I could coddle her through it all, solve the problems for her, not let her do anything for herself and have that grown child in her 30's who hates me for never giving her the room to explore on her own but is too scared from absorbing MY fear and issues with the world that she won't want to give life a go her own way, even if I would let her. And then there is 3) where I try to strike a balance between protecting, or softening the blow and allowing her to try things on her own. Which I am told is the healthiest option by that little voice in my head.
Now, option one is kinda cool because it means that I also would get to pretend, for the next ten years or so, that life is coming up ROSES! I could ignore my own little issues and devote myself to making things nothing but happy and perfect for her. The downside being that, oh yeah, perfect doesn't exist, and even if it does somewhere, it's just more work than I think I am cut out for. Plus, I have friends who were raised in a family where this was the chosen route and boy howdy, can we say 'socially naive to the point of pain'? I don't want my daughter to be so naive when she is an adult that everything less than what I told her the world was causes her pain or confusion. Coming to grips with those situations are hard, whether you are a child or an adult. But the difference is, when you are a child, it is something like "Hey, that kid hasn't yet learned to think of others and is in turn, treating me like poo and taking all the good toys/crackers/swings and saying things that feel awful to hear." To which the supportive adults help her voice what sucks about the situation to that kid, and she learns how to stick up for herself. As an adult it is something more like "Hey, that shithead is selfish and the things he says are manipulative and abusive and degrading to me." Now, I don't know about anyone else but if my adult daughter encounters that second situation in life, which I really hope she never does, I want her to be able to fall back on those less painful situations from growing up that taught her to BELIEVE that she deserves better, and that while people can be shitty, it doesn't mean she has to tolerate them. I want her to know how to walk away and expect better, but not be naive in building her life around her.
And I have no doubt in my mind that I am fully capable of providing option number two. I find myself on the brink of it all the time. It's all innocent now, which is why it is so easy to want to do all the work for her. "You can't reach the napkins and don't want to sit up to do so? Oh, let me get one for you!" or "You can't simply muster the energy to put this pile of dirty clothes in the hamper ten feet down the hall? That's ok, I'll just take them on down, I need to do laundry anyhow." The problem with this is that the situation gradually gets less and less innocent or benign. "Your teacher has you sitting next to someone who cheats off your work and your getting in trouble for it? Well, I'll just march in there and tell him what I think about that" (this is fairly innocent and benign, but what is wrong with your child knowing how to speak up a little and say "I didn't LET him copy my paper!") and then before you know it has become "What? You didn't want to pay that bill four months in a row and now you have no heat? Oh, just let me pay for that for you even though I am broke broke broke!" I know this sounds extreme, but I have seen living examples of this, which is maybe why I am a wee bit sensitive about this one. There is nothing more frustrating to someone who has grown up having to work for what they have than to watch a grown adult not even try to make things work, and just expect that someone will be there to bail them out. I have no problem with help from parents when it is needed but this situation is way too extreme. The child can't stand the parents because they are overbearing, they fret about everything, and they make demands on how the child is living like they have a say. Which you know, if mom and dad are paying Juniors rent every month, maybe they kind of do. But Junior EXPECTS it and is so ungrateful and rude about it that it's painful to watch. Not to mention, what happens when mom and dad really can't fork out the money junior needs? Or talk that infuriated boss/friend/co-worker down? Junior has to be able to cope, yo!
Now, I know that I outline options one and two to the extreme. But bear with me. This brings us to option number three. There will always be situations in which it is appropriate to protect your child from something in life. This is the basis for movie ratings, car seats, and pasteurized dairy products on a very practical level. (Although, really, I couldn't see American Beauty because it was rated R, but I could watch Empire Records which was riddled with messages about gambling, drugs, sex and all sorts of subversive rebellious things that could have potentially given me all sorts of ideas...and have you watched Pee Wee Herman as an adult? Talk about adult content. Sheesh. But I digress). And there will also always be times when it is appropriate to do something for your child. I mean, maybe she really CAN'T reach the napkins, do you really want that neon colored cookie frosting all over your house? I didn't think so. And, what happens when your child DOES stick up to that bully and she gets in trouble for it? Because I know that when my daughter was shamed for asking someone to quit making fun of her lunch, I was more than happy to go to bat for her. I don't want anyone to tell her that it isn't ok to stick up for herself.
So here I am, dancing that balance. And hoping with all my might that I am a good enough balancing act to keep my childs therapy bills on the lower end when she has to work through all the trauma I cause. I can hear it now. "And then *sob* she just stood there while I fumbled for words when this kid *sob* said really awful things to me, and *hiccup* she made me tell him what I thought and felt before she would step in and tell him offfffffff! *more sobbing*"
If you need me, I'll be the parent in the back biting my nails while watching my child give that little snot who kicked her a lesson in what's what.
Monday, December 7, 2009
There are times when you look at your family and think "Oh my god these are the most dysfunctional, rude, embarassing people on the face of the earth. How did I end up related to them?" They fart really loud while conversing about life insurance your late grandmother may have had without blinking an eye. They make off color comments referring to other family members sexual or criminal misadventures in the police station. While sorting out the marbles all the grandkids used to play with, they ask one of the mothers in the room how long it's been since they've held a pair of balls in their hand, in front of their children. They are the kind of family that you may be excommunicated from church if you attended with them, and always the first to drink too much at the reception, or act like they have. They remember any embarassing thing you have ever done and love to tell anyone who will listen, as long as you are standing right there. You think "Who the hell are these people?"
But then there are times when that assinine sense of humor saves your day like a fucking ray of sunshine. Those times when you know it is inappropriate to laugh but if you don't, your just going to crack. Lose it. Fly over the cuckoo's nest. Call it whatever you want, but there are times in everyones life where you laugh because it's all that is left to do. It may be a sign you are absolutely nuts, or that there is just enough sanity left inside of you to keep hanging on a little bit longer. One minute there are tears in your eyes because life without the recently deceased seems unbearable, and there is that family, picking their butts with that face that indicates they are mimicking the lousy service you are receiving in the restaurant, or recounting your parents awful teenage selves in a way that makes Dazed and Confused become icing on the rebllious and experimental coming of age cake, and you are stiffling laughter so hard that it makes your side ache. They are sticking their finger up your nose and you are biting your lip so hard you taste blood so that you don't snort boogers all over their hand. You look at them and think "Oh shit, I love these people. I wish they were here every damn day." A few minutes later they ask you a question and you are throwing salty assinise remarks back at them as your finger heads up their nostril.
And as you wipe the snot off your finger, onto their shirt that stuck after you removed your finger from their hairy nose it dawns on you.
"Oh shit. I am one of them."
But it's ok, because you kind of love them despite and because of their lesser qualities. And hope to god they do the same for you.
But then there are times when that assinine sense of humor saves your day like a fucking ray of sunshine. Those times when you know it is inappropriate to laugh but if you don't, your just going to crack. Lose it. Fly over the cuckoo's nest. Call it whatever you want, but there are times in everyones life where you laugh because it's all that is left to do. It may be a sign you are absolutely nuts, or that there is just enough sanity left inside of you to keep hanging on a little bit longer. One minute there are tears in your eyes because life without the recently deceased seems unbearable, and there is that family, picking their butts with that face that indicates they are mimicking the lousy service you are receiving in the restaurant, or recounting your parents awful teenage selves in a way that makes Dazed and Confused become icing on the rebllious and experimental coming of age cake, and you are stiffling laughter so hard that it makes your side ache. They are sticking their finger up your nose and you are biting your lip so hard you taste blood so that you don't snort boogers all over their hand. You look at them and think "Oh shit, I love these people. I wish they were here every damn day." A few minutes later they ask you a question and you are throwing salty assinise remarks back at them as your finger heads up their nostril.
And as you wipe the snot off your finger, onto their shirt that stuck after you removed your finger from their hairy nose it dawns on you.
"Oh shit. I am one of them."
But it's ok, because you kind of love them despite and because of their lesser qualities. And hope to god they do the same for you.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
I always wonder what people will think after I pass away. What will run through their minds when they are looking through my life's paperwork for any future life insurance that I may have, or momentos that they want to take with them? Tonight we went to my grandma's house to find information we need for the death certificate and the funeral. Years of her life shoved into a drawer waiting for someone to pull them back out and dust them off. Pictures from a life she hasn't lived in 15 or more years. Evidence of creativity lost, hidden old habits, and a life filled with love. I opened one drawer full of old sweaters and I could smell her. It smelled like I remember it smelling when I would nuzzle up to her as a small child. She would pull me in close and surround me with comfort. I remember the way she would swish her plastic camping cup with her white russian it in, the way she would laugh under her breathe, and the sound of her voice when she was feigning a comical disapproval. I can feel her hand guiding mine when she was teaching me my letters. I can see the moo-moo's she used to wear, and I can still remember the way she used to savor chocolate when she would eat her hidden M&M stash.
I cannot believe the circumstances of her passing. I am still in shock. But I have to believe that she is happier. The last ten years of her life have not been the way she would have wanted to live. She is free now. She is Grandma Jo again. But I miss her more than one would think possible.
I cannot believe the circumstances of her passing. I am still in shock. But I have to believe that she is happier. The last ten years of her life have not been the way she would have wanted to live. She is free now. She is Grandma Jo again. But I miss her more than one would think possible.
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