So last time the girls spent a weekend with their dad they came home with a Curious George DVD. No real issues there. We're sitting here on the couch, watching it together, and the phrase "fabulous monkey tub action" just made an appearance.
I don't know if I can, in good conscience, let my kids watch something that sounds like monkey porn. I'm a little creeped out.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Not so much
Oh, folks. Things here are going... not so well.
I think it's been about six months since I went off my meds. I could be wrong. I could go check. I'm too lazy. Give or take, six months.
I've started yelling again. I'm not really sure where it comes from. Somewhere deep in my brain that I'm not consciously aware of. I can maintain calm for a finite amount of time, and then...
I snap. I yell. I say things that, if they ever remember them, will make my kids feel like shit.
I've started to get that feeling, where the outer shell and the inner being are disconnected. Most of the time the shell is intact. Things get accomplished. Dinner is made, laundry done, phone calls returned. Moderate-to-good parenting takes place. I read bedtime stories. I teach the Bear how to skip.*
But underneath, the hate and the anger are just simmering, seething, waiting for any excuse to erupt. It's like a solar flare - brief, violent, intense, then gone.
I remember this feeling. I've been feeling like this for, oh, I don't even know how long now. Years. A decade? Maybe two. I can't feel connected to anyone in any human way. I'm entirely alone in the Universe, and sometimes it's too much to take.
Along with the anger comes a decided lack of impulse control. I mean, NO impulse control.
Exhibit A. I just threw away my cat. Not into the trash can, obviously, because that's highly impractical. Into the street. She bit the Bear. I'm tired of listening to the Bear cry when the cat torments her. I would get arrested for throwing a human child into the street. Not so with a cat. So, cat is gone.
I want to be happy. I do. I see things that I think should make me happy. Turning leaves. Smiling children. Tomorrow is the Fall Festival at the Bear's school, which I have been informed we must attend. Games! and Prizes! Games And Prizes! It looks like fun, or something that passes for fun when you're four. The school is sponsoring a pumpkin decorating night - we'll go to that in a few weeks. Free! I'm going to a conference that promises to kick ass - for like four days! Free! My mother is going to come for a visit - yay! The New Guy is coming for a visit - also yay! But really, much as I know I should be made happy by these wonderful things, I'm not. I can't be.
I think my soul is dead. Try as I do, I can't feel anything but pain.
Good god, that sounds melancholy. I swear I'm not being overly dramatic on purpose. I hate that shit.
*Did you know that children don't innately know how to skip? They must be taught. I, myself, was six years old before I put the right sequence of motions together. The Bear, it seems, is my child.
I think it's been about six months since I went off my meds. I could be wrong. I could go check. I'm too lazy. Give or take, six months.
I've started yelling again. I'm not really sure where it comes from. Somewhere deep in my brain that I'm not consciously aware of. I can maintain calm for a finite amount of time, and then...
I snap. I yell. I say things that, if they ever remember them, will make my kids feel like shit.
I've started to get that feeling, where the outer shell and the inner being are disconnected. Most of the time the shell is intact. Things get accomplished. Dinner is made, laundry done, phone calls returned. Moderate-to-good parenting takes place. I read bedtime stories. I teach the Bear how to skip.*
But underneath, the hate and the anger are just simmering, seething, waiting for any excuse to erupt. It's like a solar flare - brief, violent, intense, then gone.
I remember this feeling. I've been feeling like this for, oh, I don't even know how long now. Years. A decade? Maybe two. I can't feel connected to anyone in any human way. I'm entirely alone in the Universe, and sometimes it's too much to take.
Along with the anger comes a decided lack of impulse control. I mean, NO impulse control.
Exhibit A. I just threw away my cat. Not into the trash can, obviously, because that's highly impractical. Into the street. She bit the Bear. I'm tired of listening to the Bear cry when the cat torments her. I would get arrested for throwing a human child into the street. Not so with a cat. So, cat is gone.
I want to be happy. I do. I see things that I think should make me happy. Turning leaves. Smiling children. Tomorrow is the Fall Festival at the Bear's school, which I have been informed we must attend. Games! and Prizes! Games And Prizes! It looks like fun, or something that passes for fun when you're four. The school is sponsoring a pumpkin decorating night - we'll go to that in a few weeks. Free! I'm going to a conference that promises to kick ass - for like four days! Free! My mother is going to come for a visit - yay! The New Guy is coming for a visit - also yay! But really, much as I know I should be made happy by these wonderful things, I'm not. I can't be.
I think my soul is dead. Try as I do, I can't feel anything but pain.
Good god, that sounds melancholy. I swear I'm not being overly dramatic on purpose. I hate that shit.
*Did you know that children don't innately know how to skip? They must be taught. I, myself, was six years old before I put the right sequence of motions together. The Bear, it seems, is my child.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Don't worry
Why is it that the parenting things you worry about seem to come in threes? Just like all the other bad shit in your life?
A) There is, by all accounts, a not-very-nice little girl at the Bear's preschool. Two of them, really. Tiny little four-year-old bitches. Last week, they wouldn't let the Bear play with them because she had the wrong color of hair. (!) Then, today, Little Miss Emily* wouldn't let the Bear play Ring Around the Rosie with her and Cynthia. The Teacher had to tell Emily to be nice (!) to the Bear. While I'm glad that the teacher has a good grasp of the situation and is reminding these little shits to play nicely, and while the Bear is completely unperturbed by all of this, and has her own little group of nice, sweet girl friends (god bless Nikole with a K!), and while I know as a teacher that this is just part of the growing up process, I am just. furious. In my heart of hearts, I would love to protect the Bear from all the unpleasantness of life, and I can't, and it just kills me. Somewhere out there, little Emilys and Cynthias are being MEAN. To my BABY. That's so not cool.
2) The Bear failed her hearing test at the doctor's today. We've known for almost a year now that she doesn't hear very well, and place the blame squarely on the 50 or so ear infections she's had**, but it still gives me visions of little tiny hearing aids, and mama don't like that very much.
C) The Bear has been talking to her Head lately. Out loud. She'll say, "Head! Stop bothering me! I don't want to listen to you!" and discuss at length with me the things that her Head is telling her to do/think/say/feel. Given my family history of mental instability, I'm convinced that I have a schizophrenic preschooler running around here. Is she or is she not hearing voices? I can't tell.
*You'll never know if that's her real name or not...
**I'm not even exaggerating here.
A) There is, by all accounts, a not-very-nice little girl at the Bear's preschool. Two of them, really. Tiny little four-year-old bitches. Last week, they wouldn't let the Bear play with them because she had the wrong color of hair. (!) Then, today, Little Miss Emily* wouldn't let the Bear play Ring Around the Rosie with her and Cynthia. The Teacher had to tell Emily to be nice (!) to the Bear. While I'm glad that the teacher has a good grasp of the situation and is reminding these little shits to play nicely, and while the Bear is completely unperturbed by all of this, and has her own little group of nice, sweet girl friends (god bless Nikole with a K!), and while I know as a teacher that this is just part of the growing up process, I am just. furious. In my heart of hearts, I would love to protect the Bear from all the unpleasantness of life, and I can't, and it just kills me. Somewhere out there, little Emilys and Cynthias are being MEAN. To my BABY. That's so not cool.
2) The Bear failed her hearing test at the doctor's today. We've known for almost a year now that she doesn't hear very well, and place the blame squarely on the 50 or so ear infections she's had**, but it still gives me visions of little tiny hearing aids, and mama don't like that very much.
C) The Bear has been talking to her Head lately. Out loud. She'll say, "Head! Stop bothering me! I don't want to listen to you!" and discuss at length with me the things that her Head is telling her to do/think/say/feel. Given my family history of mental instability, I'm convinced that I have a schizophrenic preschooler running around here. Is she or is she not hearing voices? I can't tell.
*You'll never know if that's her real name or not...
**I'm not even exaggerating here.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Taking a break
I'm a socialist! Thanks, Amy!
| You are a Social Liberal (65% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (10% permissive) You are best described as a:
Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid Also : The OkCupid Dating Persona Test |
Howler
I try very hard not to make fun of the mistakes my students make, even though it's incredibly tempting. But sometimes, you just have to share with *someone*. When a student mistakes a P for a V and ends up saying that her chores include cleaning up her Volvo, instead of dusting her room, it's just too funny not to laugh!
On second thought, reading that here, it's just not as funny as it seemed on paper. Perhaps it's time to take a break from grading...
On second thought, reading that here, it's just not as funny as it seemed on paper. Perhaps it's time to take a break from grading...
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