The screaming child has just been carried out of earshot, much to my relief. Kids can be such self-indulgent little shits, can't they? Though they are naturally generous: every time a spark of annoyance ignites in their brains, they feel compelled to share it. Whine, whine, whine. Often I openly mock the child into submission, then act brisk and change the subject. It confuses her enough that nine times out of ten, it succeeds in re-directing her attention and mood.
The only sound which equals a whining child in hideousness is an adult assuming the All-Powerful role, and using the Voice. Stern and terrible, it makes pronouncements like "If you don't pick that up, there will be no vanilla yogurt with honey" and "There is no more juice until you eat these three pieces of chicken." Sometimes it gets followed up with appeals to the child's rational side, i.e. you must eat protein so you will grow big and strong like dad, etc. Usually, it works. Sometimes, the kid really doesn't give a shit, countering with the inarguable: "But I don't want to."
Faced with such logic, there is only one thing to do: up the consequences. So it's no longer "Come away from there, you might fall down the hill" or "Stop at the end of the sidewalk, please!" It's better to describe in a grim, world-weary voice what will really happen. You will break both legs falling down the hill and roll into a prickle bush, where we won't be able to find you for days and days and you will have to to drink your own pee to stay alive. Or you will run into traffic and no one, nobody will stop, and a truck will roll over you and squish your guts all over the road and we'll have to get a spatula to scrape them up. Gruesome consequences worked for the Brothers Grimm and it works for me.
Making up horrible ends for a three and a half year old's Choose Your Own Adventure story breaks up the monotony of looking after a small child. At its best, silence is granted for a brief period of concentration during make-believe with stuffed animals or drawing or trampoline time. The only noises they might make at this time are breathy little songs of narration ("Now I'm jumping on this foot...now I'm jumping on that foot..."). This is the golden time, when one can sneak a glance at the absorbed child and allow an inward spasm of affection and feel like a good parent. Most of the time, it isn't like this. It's a maze of tiny chores, each branching into dead ends of failure or just another intersection. Respite occurs when the child falls asleep or gets dropped off at daycare aka being made someone else's problem.
The frequent ascents into towering kidrage further break up the monotony. It's like the scene in Sleeping Beauty where the evil queen transforms into a giant dragon. Nothing to do but either run, if it's not your kid, or get clinical. If you panic, you're done for. I pried the screamer off my partner the other day when the house-painter showed up (our crime: waking her up from a nap in the car) and took her for a walk. She had two options: stand up and cry, or be carried and stop. Up, down, up, down. I made her take a deep breath at every sign or hydrant. She calmed down in under ten minutes and was shortly as chipper as ever. I have none of the maternal pangs of guilt other women report, just an icy resolve to get 'er done. Could be because I'm a step-mother and thus biologically removed, or merely because I'm as emotionally stunted as a bonsai tree. Tomayto, tomahto.
Must work now, pumpkins.
GR
11 June 2013
29 May 2013
Ahem
The last year has been tapioca pudding. Bland substance filled with little bubbles to make it interesting enough to keep eating.
I was pregnant and quickly unpregnant back in September. True to life, I miscarried through a week-long project management course in Victoria. It had its comic moments to be sure, as I was staying at an absent acquaintance's place and my biggest fear was bleeding all over her bed. I slept on a small tarp, in jeans stuffed full of towels and maxi-pads. There were equal parts of regret and relief. Too soon, too soon is my first response every time my period is late--but perhaps there is never the *perfect* time. And perhaps at 39.8 years old, the perfect time is any time I can actually merge an egg and sperm in my crabby old uterus (or wherever life takes place).
Soon to be 40! Calloo, callay. I don't plan anything past a BBQ, maybe a bike ride or hike with some pals. A boob job, having the fat from my ass injected into my lips. The usual.
Work has been sporadic but now looks promising. The downside to having long-term contracts is that they (of course) do end eventually. I was confident to the point of cocky last spring, as it had been a good couple of years and I assumed the good times would keep rolling. I suppose learning a modicum of humility has been A Good Thing. I've thrown myself at various initiatives in the last several months, hoping something would stick, a connection would be made, etc.
Being a consultant/contractor/temp is a leap of faith...that keeps getting longer and longer. Wil E. Coyote, running in place off a cliff until he looks down. Maybe he could get to the other side if he just didn't look down. Who knows? The lack of consistent work/$$ has been the most stressful thing the last year. Inevitably, I've embraced the idea of going back to school to get a designation as a Something. Inevitably, I've toyed with relocation and entertained the idea of doing something completely different and tried my subtle hardest to drum up more work from existing clients. As the pseuddhists say, the Universe has not provided what I am asking. So I ask for different.
The Man has been very patient, but is more disposed to talk about it than I am. I am by turns withdrawn and dismissive on the subject. My rationale being what's the point of talking about it beyond the odd rant or moan? I've been in dry spells before, though never this long. By a certain age, one would hope to be past these droughts. Ah well. Being withdrawn has also meant I have not written a word for fun in almost a year. It's like I've thought about it as a reward which can only be granted once I've achieved the goal of busyness or sustained fecundity. I've realized now that the strange iron grip I've had on myself the last several months has mostly just left me tired and dispirited. Asking for help has been the first step. I've even done some yoga. Ain't I humbled enough yet, O Universe?
GR
I was pregnant and quickly unpregnant back in September. True to life, I miscarried through a week-long project management course in Victoria. It had its comic moments to be sure, as I was staying at an absent acquaintance's place and my biggest fear was bleeding all over her bed. I slept on a small tarp, in jeans stuffed full of towels and maxi-pads. There were equal parts of regret and relief. Too soon, too soon is my first response every time my period is late--but perhaps there is never the *perfect* time. And perhaps at 39.8 years old, the perfect time is any time I can actually merge an egg and sperm in my crabby old uterus (or wherever life takes place).
Soon to be 40! Calloo, callay. I don't plan anything past a BBQ, maybe a bike ride or hike with some pals. A boob job, having the fat from my ass injected into my lips. The usual.
Work has been sporadic but now looks promising. The downside to having long-term contracts is that they (of course) do end eventually. I was confident to the point of cocky last spring, as it had been a good couple of years and I assumed the good times would keep rolling. I suppose learning a modicum of humility has been A Good Thing. I've thrown myself at various initiatives in the last several months, hoping something would stick, a connection would be made, etc.
Being a consultant/contractor/temp is a leap of faith...that keeps getting longer and longer. Wil E. Coyote, running in place off a cliff until he looks down. Maybe he could get to the other side if he just didn't look down. Who knows? The lack of consistent work/$$ has been the most stressful thing the last year. Inevitably, I've embraced the idea of going back to school to get a designation as a Something. Inevitably, I've toyed with relocation and entertained the idea of doing something completely different and tried my subtle hardest to drum up more work from existing clients. As the pseuddhists say, the Universe has not provided what I am asking. So I ask for different.
The Man has been very patient, but is more disposed to talk about it than I am. I am by turns withdrawn and dismissive on the subject. My rationale being what's the point of talking about it beyond the odd rant or moan? I've been in dry spells before, though never this long. By a certain age, one would hope to be past these droughts. Ah well. Being withdrawn has also meant I have not written a word for fun in almost a year. It's like I've thought about it as a reward which can only be granted once I've achieved the goal of busyness or sustained fecundity. I've realized now that the strange iron grip I've had on myself the last several months has mostly just left me tired and dispirited. Asking for help has been the first step. I've even done some yoga. Ain't I humbled enough yet, O Universe?
GR
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