How to paint yourself into a corner.

Hannah was an ornery cuss all night, beginning with getting whiney about my insistence that she practice her piano lesson correctly, and ending with holding the bathtub plug out of my reach when I asked for it, under the guise of shaking the excess water off it.  Then she went into her room to get dressed and cry in her mirror.  I took the mirror out, so she had to cry alone.

After she came out, I asked her if she wanted to talk about what had upset her.

Hannah: Well, I just got a little tired.  You know how tired people get cranky?
Me: Oh.  Then I guess you should brush your teeth and get ready for bed now.
Hannah: I was just a little bit tired...
Me: Brush.

As I've mentioned before, this child is inventive, and has no compunction about making stuff up.  Fortunately for me, she has not yet mastered the concept of what comes next after she feeds me a line.  When she figures out how to predict my response and trouble-shoot that, I'm dead in the water.  She's a much better liar than I ever was.

I need a pinch-hitter.

Wednesday night I sat on a park bench and watched Hannah take a tearful swipe at a little boy who was not, at that moment, doing anything visibly wrong.  I called her over to me, and she trudged over, climbed into my lap and started crying.  She said the other kids were being mean to her all night, especially one new friend, who kept telling her that it wasn't her turn at whatever they were doing.  Hannah was upset, because she was keeping track of the order, and she KNEW she when it was supposed to be her turn.  That's just not fair.  Then she fell down, and actually got hurt, but the little boy didn't ask if she was okay. That's just not nice.  He may have also made a joke, which was why she took a very wide swipe at him, which had no chance of connecting, but graphically expressed her deep frustration.  That's just heartbreaking.

My daughter, as an only child, doesn't really have to compete for anything at home.  She can have undivided attention, uninterrupted time at playing with her toys, unlimited turns swinging on the rope in the backyard, all without having to negotiate with other kids.  When there are other kids around, she is usually gracious, and wants to share.  She doesn't understand why other kids don't use the same manners that she does, why they would be mean, hit, or laugh at her.

When things like this happen, I just want to take her home, bundle into our little mom-dad-Hannah cocoon and never let anyone else in.  I want to hold her and rock her and tell her how much I love her, and that she never has to see those rotten kids again if she doesn't want to.

But I don't want to make her emotionally crippled.  I don't really want her living with me when she's 40.  I know the rest of the world is a lot harsher, ruder, and louder than her dad and I are.  And I want her to be able to live on earth like a normal person.

So what I do is reason with her about how important it is to be first, as opposed to second in line, if everyone still gets a turn.  I tell her that boys fall down all the time, and they might not stop to ask one another if they're okay, and maybe that's why this boy didn't ask her.  I tell her that everyone has bad days, and maybe the other kids don't realize they're being mean.  I remind her to tell other people to "Buzz off!" in her "mean voice" when they bother her repeatedly.  I remind her that she doesn't have to give other people the toys she's using when they ask, but it's okay to do so if she wants.  And I let her know that everyone won't be her friend, but she can still be kind to everyone. 

I don't really know how to raise a child to be both assertive and kind.   I'm not always sure how to do those two things at the same time as an adult.  Sometimes I want to backhand other peoples' children for being a jerk to mine; but I don't want to intervene too quickly, for fear that I'll teach my child that I don't think she can handle her own problems.  It's painful to watch her struggle and sometimes fail, although I know that's the correct way to build self-esteem, because it's the quickest way to break my heart.  Some days I'd like to stay on the bench and let someone else handle the heavy hitting.

Boundaries? What boundaries?

I pulled into the parking lot at work this morning to see a grown woman, easily sixty years old, sitting on the side of a raised planting bed, shirt pulled up, scrutinizing her navel.  I mean her chin was on her chest, and she was prodding at her abdomen for some reason, although I wasn't close enough to see exactly what the reason may have been.  I couldn't be more pleased about my nearsightedness.

When she heard my car, she covered herself, but as I was parking she went right back to what she was doing. I know this because when I got out of the car, I saw she had her shirt hiked up again for another look.  I felt like I'd stumbled upon a man peeing in an alley.  This woman was sitting in front of my building, as though she were doing nothing more intimate than making a phone call.  Why am I the one who feels embarrassed?

Later, coming out of the common rest room in center of our office plaza, I happened upon a man's actual ass.  There is a gentleman who leases an office near ours who commonly sits on a bench in the breezeway to smoke a cigar and mess around on his smart phone.  Today, for some reason, he was sitting on another of these stupid raised planting beds, leaning over to peer into his phone. This left a rather impressive and compulsory view of his butt to anyone coming from west of the shrubbery.  That end of the plaza, incidentally, includes a psychiatrist's office.  No risk for lasting damage there.

Don't tell me, gentlemen, that you are unaware of the exposure of your buttocks to the air in the case of the proverbial plumber's crack.  That guy had to know he was a little too-well ventilated.  And what, short of a stab wound, would be worthy of public examination of one's bare midsection.  Why is it that people don't feel the need to keep their private business private?  Am I the only one disturbed by this?  I'm not that dainty.  I talk about sex, drugs, and body parts with people every day, for legitimate, clinical reasons.  But I don't need to see it in the courtyard, people.

It's a good thing I have other people to do my thinking for me some days.

As I mentioned in my last post, I'm weary.  I've been doing everything that requires 2 hands for over a month now, and I have started forgetting stuff.  Not important stuff, I think.  Everyone's been bathed and fed at least three times this week, so I think I'm doing pretty well.

My aunt called me today and asked what we're doing for Easter.
Um. Going to church?  Eating chocolate bunnies?  What else is there?
Oh!  Dinner!  I forgot.  Maybe I should go buy a ham. Or a ham sandwich.  Or Valium.

She suggested that we go out for brunch.  I love the idea of brunch.  Brunch always sounds like there will be sunshine and mimosas.  And maybe hats.  It sounds crisp and fresh and like there should be whipped cream on most of the things that aren't prime rib.  It's a festive word.  And usually comes with a festive price tag, so I don't bother with it myself.

Except this year.  Because, dang it, I'm not cooking Easter dinner and then cleaning the whole thing up after I'm done.  And because I can't get anyone else to eat asparagus, so I'd have to make two vegetables.  Boo to that.

It never, ever occurred to me to go out to eat on Easter.  I called for reservations just this evening.  Which is why we'll be enjoying the buffet at 5:30 instead of 11:30.  But what I'll really be enjoying is the clean kitchen.  And the not-washing dishes.  And the view.  Dig it.

Why didn't I think of this?

I've gotten myself into the mindset that I can, and must, do everything.  We must have home-cooked meals together every night.  The laundry must be done and bathroom cleaned twice a week. The kitchen must be cleaned daily. The floors must be vacuumed constantly.  Alright, that one's true, or the carpets would be made out of dog hair.  It's this perfect woman thing that we inadvertently buy into.  I am well-acquainted with the concept of good enough.  I fairly shower my clients in it all day long.  I rail against the folly of the "Should" thinking error, and can pick it out of any (anyone else's) rant in record time.  It is my actual business to help other people lighten up and be less hard on themselves.  But I routinely forget to do it myself.  

Sigh.  Anyone know of a good therapist?

I'm not Irish, and you probably don't want to get close enough to kiss me.

I'm about at my wit's end.  I, frankly, had more faith in the length of my wits before this week, but now I see the truth of it: I'm nearly witless.

In the words of Indigo Montoya: There is too much; lemme sum up.

My husband got hit by a car while riding his bicycle 2 weeks ago.  He had surgery on Monday to repair the complete separation of his shoulder, including the complete tear of both the AC and CC ligaments.  I don't want to explain that any further; it's medical and boring if it's not happening to you. Suffice it to say that the past two weeks have sucked immensely.  I'm exhausted.  I'm frustrated.  I'm fearful of lasting damage to my  husband's mobility.  I might cry if they don't have the flavor of ice cream I want when I stop at Publix on the way home today.

Now it's St. Patrick's day.  I could not give a flying tow-truck about St. Patrick's day.  I don't own any green clothing.  I'm not interested in green beer.  And anyone who pinches me is going to lose a couple fingers, at best.

My daughter, on the other hand, is 6, and thinks it's a serious holiday for everyone.  They apparently camp it up in elementary school nowadays, and she's been talking about the stupid Leprechaun like it's Santa Claus.  Any minor change in her environment is chalked up to the Leprechaun's practice runs of mischief-making.  Geeze.  Last night she set up a Leprechaun trap in her bedroom, which looked a little like a fairy house, so it was mildly endearing to me.  But this morning she awakens me at 4:30 asking if she can get up yet.  Like she's expecting a pot of gold in the living room.  I had, in concession to her sweet enthusiasm over the day, gone into her room after she fell asleep to mess around with her toys and write a little Leprechaun note for her.  But that was as much as I could manage.  I wasn't getting up 3 hours before dawn to enjoy that moment with her.  Fortunately, she let me go back to sleep and didn't wake her dad about it.

Really.  People.  I'm sorry I can't drum up any enthusiasm here.  I feel like a jerk for being unfestive and stuff, but cut me some slack.  I have to change the dressing on some surgical wounds.  And then eat a pint of salted caramel gelato.  I take that back; I'm not even a little sorry.  Especially about the gelato.

Those who can, write. Those who can't, write blog entries about how those other guys did it wrong.

I've started reading Sense and Sensibility for the first time.  For some reason I avoided all those Brit-chick novels when I was in high school.  Except for Wuthering Heights.   I loved that, presumably because it's kind of half-ghost-story, and I was a huge Kate Bush fan.  Even with these factors to recommend it, it was pretty tragic and swooney and girly.  I'm not, so far, getting the gush over Jane Austen.  Does that make me some kind of philistine?  In the first 10 admittedly short chapters of this book, it seems like typical unrealistic romance novel stuff that would have inspired two different John Hughes movies in the '80s.  Austen must have had teen aged girls traipsing all over the countryside hoping for a fortuitous sprain that would put them within striking distance of a dashing and rich husband in the early 19th century. I wonder how many needlessly muddy shoes turned up on back porches of the well-bred middle classes after the publication of this treasure. 

To be fair, I have no real knowledge of literary criticism.  I never took any literature or English courses in college; I'd showed up with enough AP credits to opt out entirely.  What a bargain.  My literary sensibilities lean toward smart use of humor, precise grammar, and correct word usage, preferably with at least three or four words I have to go look up.  I once rejected a book because the author used the word "undermine" when the context of his sentence clearly called for "impugn" or "deride." (Chris Bohjalian, you ninny.)  And, for some reason, I deeply enjoy the artful and non-gratuitous use of expletives, in the style of Christopher Moore's Fool.

The really good thing about this book for me is that it's extremely talkey, and uses quite a bit of colloquial language that forces me to think harder than the plot, to this point, would require.  So I'll undoubtedly carry on with it.  After all,  Sacre Bleu won't be released until April 3, so I've got a little time.  

On the Live Oak

Your yellow veil obscures
contours
clarity
respiration.

Your shower of leaves
persists
persists
buries.

And must I even mention
the stupid inch worms?

Yet your eventual shelter from May through October
keeps me
from burning you
to the ground
from whence you grow.

Keep it up.