Actual conversation over lunch between me and my beloved (who will soon take his Series 7 and not be working from home anymore, thank the heavens):
Me: "Ku-Ku-Ca-Chu."
Beloved: "I am the walrus."
Me: "What do you suppose inspired that song?"
Beloved: "Drugs."
The moors are foggy this morning. The fog has rolled in to coat the land with droplets of pre-Halloween doom. Something soppy this way comes. The wet leaves drop from the huge tree in my backyard, calling softly, "We'll be a bitch to rake this weekend if it doesn't stop raining."
The vet called yesterday. Sybil's thyroid levels are back to normal. Hurrah! She's not a fan of the daily pills, but I explained to her they are an important part of her holistic recovery program (and they greatly enhance her breathing exercises). She's so excited about the whole thing she's currently passed out on the futon.
In other news, the little angel is experimenting with a painting career. The Emerald City has launched an ambitious program to ruin every piece of the little angel's Ebay wardrobe before the first snowfall. Each day, she paints with something a little more toxic and a little harder to remove. First it was pudding (she ate more than she painted with), then it was watercolors and now it is some sort of tempura conconction that is guaranteed to ruin the pair of paints she came home in yesterday. Do they use the painting shirt I sent along? No, they laugh at the painting shirt. They spit on its fibers. There will be no shielding of the cute clothing. Tra la!
I was really grumpy about the ruination of clothing yesterday when I picked the little angel up and saw blue and yellow completing covering her pants, shoes and cute little lavender peasant top. I thought, surely other daycares do not release their children in such states? But then, I remembered Oz, and told myself sternly that if dirty is the worst thing she gets at daycare, I ought to count my blessings.
And buy uglier clothes.
Sybil the cat is snoring on the futon in my office. We took her to the V-E-T yesterday to check her heart murmur and her thyroid. Apparently the last time she was in there, her heart rate was so fast it was difficult to check it - well over 200 beats per minute. This time it was a leisurely 110, which is normal for a cat. She has gained 2/10 of a pound in the past month since she's been on her daily pills. I credit that to the Greenie treats we give her afterward.
The vet told me solemnly that her heart murmur is still there. I asked if it could be a problem in and of itself, and she said no, it is more a harbinger of things to come. She is better in person than over the phone, but she's certainly not one to gild the lily.
She doesn't have the faith in Sybil that I do. This is the cat that shocks people when they find out her age, the Sophia Loren of the kitty set. She has had no plastic surgery. Her fur is not gray around the edges, and she can still hop up to the bathroom sink when she wants a drink straight from the faucet. She did urinate inappropriately on the futon last night, but I know from the look in her eyes that was a "hey, bastards, I told you NO VET" pee, not a "I'm old, help, I've fallen and I can't get up" pee.
Though her body is somewhat failing her, her mind is still very sharp. Her fur is so soft, just like the amazing fur rugs I used to beg to touch at the leather store in the Old Market when I was growing up. Her step is heavier on the stairs than it used to be, but she still takes them six or seven times a day to get from the futon in my office, where she spends her days with me, down to the litter box or, more importantly, the food supply.
I'm supposed to call this afternoon to hear the status on the thyroid test. I tried reading Sybil some motivational quotes, thinking maybe it's mind over matter for her. I said, "Sybil, you have to WANT to get well." She licked her whiskers. I repeated sternly, "Sybil, you must get fresh air and exercise." She rolled over and went back to sleep. It is so hard to get through to them when they get older and set in their ways.
So now, Sybil's bedside table is cluttered with pills and pill-poppers and snacks and little drinks of water. She has her good days and her bad days about taking the pills. We haven't had to buy her the lifting device to get her back off the chair yet. She doesn't need a walker. She refuses to hang around with other 12+ cats, saying they are too old and boring, even when I gently point out that she is four years older than they are. She scoffs at needlepoint and backgamman, demanding whiskey and a cigarette instead.
What can I do? Don't the aged deserve our respect?
Oh, what a difference a day can make. Parenthood, it is a roller coaster.
Last night, desperate for sleep, I took the little angel to the hardware store to buy earplugs. She helped to pick them out, not knowing they were to block out the sounds of her prolonged crying if she so chose to do it again.
When I put her to bed this time, I explained Gray Kitty's mythical powers. I emphasized Gray Kitty's time in Stuffed Animal Academy, where she had been put through classes such as Monster Fighting, Darkness Banishing and, most importantly, Angel Protection at the graduate level. I told her that I had purposefully had Gray Kitty train with me for over a year before she began her tour of duty as the little angel's first line of defense against darkness and scary dreams. I don't know if this is what was causing all the waking up. I also let her brandish her spoon at a full carton of yogurt at the end of dinner and gave her a half-dose of Tylenol (that was all she would take) in case her teeth were hurting her. I tucked her in and asked her if she also wanted Yellow Unicorn, but she said no, just Gray Kitty. She curled up and went to sleep.
I took a bath with the Fussy Baby lavender and chamomile bath soap and went to bed myself. Somehow in there, I forgot to turn on the baby monitor. That was probably a good thing.
My beloved said she made some noise once at about 2. I didn't hear her, and he, being a man, didn't go in. (This is not man-bashing, just the truth.)
She slept until 6 a.m. By then, I was thinking as she drank her bottle of how I would get her dressed early, maybe do some Pilates, throw in a load of laundry...but then she handed me her bottle and flipped over on her tummy, cuddling up right below my chin. She began breathing deeply. Well, I thought. I'll maybe let her sleep for ten minutes. Then my eyes grew heavy. Her breathing was blowing right across my shoulder. She dug her little nubbin feet into my stomach, curling her toes like Sybil the cat.
I woke up at 7 a.m. So much for being productive early in the morning.
That little angel - I should lend her out to the insomniacs I mentioned yesterday. She's like a drug or something.
There are many different kinds of sleep deprivation. I'll chronicle a few here from my latest book on the subject (that I wish I'd written, but I was too tired):
1) Alcohol-induced. Typically occurs following a night you spent partying when you knew damn well you had to get up early to see your grandmother, go to work or graduate from college. Usually accompanied by a hangover, this type can be eliminated by simply going to bed early the next day or napping after whatever you had to do at 7 a.m. ends. Sympathy level: 1 Pillow.
2) Insomnia-related. Sometimes, you just can't sleep during the night because your feverish brain is cataloging the Internet, creating voodoo dolls for your boss or worrying you may never, ever get married and have a family. Sleep often comes along like a freight train about an hour before you have to get up for the day. You wake by force and feel shitty and groggy until about noon. Sleep aids and caffeine avoidance (and sometimes a good therapist) can help alleviate this type. Sympathy level: 4 Pillows.
3) The love bug. You're having so much hot sex you don't have time for sleep. Waking is not an issue, because there can be more sex. You're carried through the day by adrenaline and the thought of yet more sex. Sex, sex. You're in love. We all hate you. Sympathy level: 1 Pillow.
4) New-baby-induced. The child, he eats every hour and a half. And you, poor woman, are the bottle. You were not expecting this level of crazy. You drag yourself, however, almost cheerfully out of bed every hour and a half, because you are so damn happy the baby is still alive - you never thought it possible! - and you are still sort of medicated with some good narcotic shit they gave you in the hospital. Sometimes this type can be combined with #2, and this is a very bad thing. However, most of society expects you will be in this condition and you are usually not required to go to the office, both GOOD THINGS. Sympathy level: 5 Pillows.
5) Toddler-induced. Sometimes the toddler will successfully sleep through the night for months on end as a baby, lulling you into a sense of false security that you have birthed an Angel Baby, a good sleeper. Then, inexplicably, the toddler begins waking up every hour on the hour every few weeks for no reason at all. The child is not sick. The child is not in pain. The child is not hungry. The child is just awake and crying, and you sort of want to move next door so that you do not have to listen anymore. You no longer care that the child is flesh of your flesh or even cute, you just want the child to go hibernate for a few years so that you can catch up on your sleep. Everyone expects that you would've Ferbered your child into sleeping by now, so you must therefore be doing something wrong to bring this wrath of nonsleep upon yourself. Oh, and you're back at work and have been for over a year. Sympathy level: 1 Pillow.
Yes, you guessed it. The little angel woke up three times on Saturday night and at 1, 2:30, 4 and 5 last night. Each time, we followed the Ferber practice. Wait five minutes, go in, pat head, no eye contact, no talking, leave. Wait 15 minutes and repeat. By 5, we waited 45 MINUTES before going in. I snatched her out of the Crib of Hell and took her downstairs for some milk. She drank the milk and passed out like someone suffering from Type 1, though I think she may have insomniac tendencies. Oh, Dave Attell, can you take the little angel along with you on your next tour? Because damn it, cute and all, I want her to move out for a few days.
Last night was Parent's Night at the Emerald City. We were supposed to all take our children down to the basement, where they would be individually caged while we parents heard about the Emerald City's recent state accredidation.
I'm kidding. But that would've been safer.
I took the little angel down and was met with chaos. At the time I went down, there were about twenty children ranging in age from the little angel (youngest) to five boys looking to be around seven or eight years old. The basement is cement. There was one set of blocks, two decrepit, pointy metal basketball hoops, five balls, some bowling pins, two portable climbing playsets barely centered on gymnastics mats and a set of yarn blocks. For what ended up to be more than 40 children. Damn.
Some of the other mother's in the little angel's class stood next to me, their mouths agape. There was one adult supervising the din, accompanied by a staff of fifth grade girls. I looked at J's mother. She looked at me. We knew there was no way that one woman was going to be able to watch the 82nd and Airborne Battalion of the Children's Army. NO WAY.
I told J and D's mothers that I would stay down in the basement, since my beloved was already upstairs, happily listening to an extended advertisement for waddler gymnastics. The waddler gymnastics people were supposed to be immediately coming downstairs after their little talk to set up mats on which the children would play. The children, who by the time they got downstairs, would have worked themselves into a rapid lather from 37 minutes of practically unsupervised running and throwing of balls at each other.
Within ten minutes, little P. had fallen down on the cement. His brother looked soulfully on.
"Do you think he's really hurt?" I asked S., trying to comfort a weeping P. There was no blood or bruising, but he was obviously terrified. I knew their mother was one like me who would freak out to know her child was suffering in the jungles of 'Nam while she listened to a boring speech upstairs. I decided if he didn't stop crying in ten minutes, I would go get her. He did not. I decided to venture upstairs. I debated for about .5 seconds whether or not to leave the little angel undefended. Of course, I took her with me. P's mother said she's had a feeling and whisked P off to also listen to the lectures. I explained to the angel that we'd lost 1/4 of our company and had to soldier on. I told her to be brave.
"Down!" she cried. She is so brave.
We went back downstairs, and she ran off to play with a small girl of about two who had not stopped crying for over a half hour. The one adult supervisor decided to take her upstairs, leaving me and a terrified-looking teenage girl to supervise ALL THESE CHILDREN. The boy scouts were playing a heated game of dodgeball in the corner, heaving the red rubber ball with the Sega-induced force only a young boy can muster. I watched helplessly as little D. toddled into the middle of the crossfire. Thankfully, he was not hit.
I walked over to the battlezone, looked around, gathered my parently righteous indignation and yelled, "HEY!" at the top of my authoritarian range.
The boys paused for a second and looked at me. They were really good boys, they were just stuck in a church basement with nothing to do. I pointed at D. and J., who had both now wandered into the middle of the danger zone.
"These little boys have no business being over here with you, but I can't come and get them with you throwing the balls that hard. Do you understand what will happen to you if you hurt these little boys?"
They looked at me, terrified, and ran away. I hadn't intended to break up their game, just remove the FRICKIN' TODDLERS from the fray. They didn't give me the chance to explain what would happen to them, which was not bodily injury. I must look tough or something. I can just imagine the conversations they had at home later.
"Then this blond lady in glasses and cheap thongs came up and told us she'd kick our asses if we hit the toddlers, which we were totally not trying to do. Can you please have her fingers cut off?"
"No, Billy, go to bed."
Hopefully I'll never see them again.
I led J. and D. back over to a safer area of the din. By then I was sweating like a sow in summertime. Children whizzed by me, periodically falling on the cement. The older ones laughed and picked themselves up, but the younger ones, completely overwhelmed by the noise and action, were quickly getting overstimulated. J. had his thumb in his mouth and was making the sign for milk, only I don't know sign language and didn't know that until his mother showed it to me later. Oh, well, that's what you get for leaving your kid with an American.
At this point, the little angel showed me a rusty washer she had picked up off the ground and was about to put in her mouth. I put it in my pocket, thinking if I set it down anywhere in this crazy room, some other kid would soon swallow it. I looked at my watch. 7:30.
The gymnastics people finally got set up by 7:45 (this hell was to continue until 8). They started with the oldest kids, leaving the younger ones with no definition for self-control to wiggle and try to wander onto the mats while the older ones bounced and kicked. One of them pointed to the cones as the little angel tried to get on the delicious-looking mat. "Stay behind the cones, honey," she said.
STAY BEHIND THE CONES? Does she realize the little angel doesn't even know what a cone is? Good grief. By this point, though, the din seemed to be controlled, and I decided to let someone else watch my child while I tried to figure out who in the HELL had that stinky diaper going on. It was some little person near me, and I had almost succombed to the smell.
Of course, there were no diapers anywhere, so there wasn't much I could do about it. Still, I had to know.
At 8, my beloved finally came back down. "Why didn't you come up?" he asked. "Let's go."
I looked around at D. and J. surrounded by roiling children approaching their bedtimes and starting to whine. "Let's take these two with us," I said. "I can't leave them here in the jungle."
So we carried the boys upstairs and handed them to their mothers, who had NO IDEA what they had just been through. I don't know that I'll tell them. But I had to tell someone.
That was the longest hour of my life.
As I become more and more depressed about my lack of recent publication - the last short story I had published was before the little angel was born - I've been reading diatribes on writing from some of the greats. Most of my inspirational books are boxed up in the basement from the last time we tried to sell This Old House and make it look like we really weren't the sort of people that stacked things in every corner of our living space (even though we do, because the shelving around here really sucks). This week, I got Zen in the Art of Writing, by Ray Bradbury. As I was reading it in the bathtub last night, I felt a wee bit inspired.
Then I got into bed and read the essay about his lists. He generated a lot of story ideas by coming up with big lists of nouns. One of the things he wrote a lot about was The Thing at the Top of the Stairs. Apparently when he was a child, the only bathroom was upstairs, and the light switch was halfway up. He was convinced there was some horrible thing at the top of the stairs waiting for him.
Well, hell, there was. His imagination. Yet somehow, he managed to harness that into an incredible collection of stories and novels.
I'm not really that kind of writer. I've been scared of many things through the years - in my childhood, most notably having to pass by my bedroom at night when the lights were out and the shade was not drawn. I think I had more reason that Bradbury to be scared, though - I had seen the shadow of my grandfather's German Shepherd pass by my window at night before, and let me tell you, a black German Shepherd can look an awful lot like a bear silhouetted against some leafless trees on a cold November night. I remember when I had to pass my room, I would get a good running start. Inevitably, though, I would look at the window, right as I passed. My heart would pound. I might have even whimpered a little bit.
Most of the things that scare me, though, are more existential in nature. Here's a short list:
After getting about that far, I fell asleep. I dreamed about flights of stairs.
Yesterday I asked one of my co-workers, who is from India, if he thought he would ever go back to live there. He said he didn't know, because the living situation was complicated. I thought I understood.
Then, he told me that he met his wife in Singapore when he was sent there for work. He was supposed to stay three months, and he ended up staying five years and came back with a wife and two kids.
Now they live in Kansas. He said they might stay here forever, because it's one place where they both feel happy.
So there you go. It reminds me of a little ditty I wrote after I came back from my one world trip to Australia in 1998. I will share it with you, because I know how you love to have poetry foisted on you.
Australia Via Kansas
Rubbing swollen feet encased in gray socks,
I remember the way the sky looked when I left.
"The clouds in Kansas are different," she'd said.
The people there are, too.
Perhaps Kansas City really is the center of reality. The Gulf Stream breaks here. Ponder it. Scary. But possible.
Tonight's class discussion took a bit of a detour. After the break, we were talking about neighborhoods. I was telling those who stuck around during the break about how when I moved into This Old House, we didn't have the foresight to notice the eviction sign on the house next door. It turned out that the house next door, you see, used to be a meth lab. A meth lab that exploded.
Over the past four years that we have lived here, the neighborhood has turned over quite a bit. Apparently it used to be a bad neighborhood, perhaps was even one when we moved in. Now a lot of the older people and meth-lab folks have either died or been jailed, and young people, such as our four-years-ago selves, have moved in and started renovating. I'm hoping it's the start of a fabulous gentrification movement that will end in lucrative profit for us.
A girl has to have a dream.
Anyway, I told them the meth-lab story, and how a wonderful young woman bought the house next door after it had been gutted and rebuilt with new wiring and plumbing and all of that sort of stuff. They seemed surprised at my naivete. Then I told them about our old apartments - the one on 32nd and Central - the one in which our downstairs neighbor died and was not found for a week - the one from which windows we watched several young felons being chased by the spotlight of the ghetto copter through our backyard and into the projects behind us. I also told them about the previous one - the one on Warwick and Armour - the one from which we heard so many gunshots that we soon became immune to their sounds. They seemed surprised I had lived in worse neighborhoods than theirs. I told them of the night I nailed the windows of my first-floor single apartment shut, because, I, alone at 25, was scared of the sounds that went bump in the night emanating from the abandoned apartment building next door.
God protects fools and children.
"You see, I moved here from Chicago," I told them. "Even the best neighborhoods in Chicago have their crime and their rubbish and their homeless."
"Crime is everywhere," they told me.
Then R., a thirty-something black man in my class, the one who always connects the lessons somehow back to sex, told me he'd bought guns for both his sisters. "You don't have to aim," he said. "Just shoot - they have no idea if you have them in your sights or not."
This was a bizarre conversation for an Iowa farm girl, but maybe not so bizarre when you consider I've lived in the bowels of two major U.S. cities now, in addition to two small towns in Iowa. The conversation followed a passage I had them read describing one young man's attempt to eat pig lips in a bar. Somehow, it all seemed to tie together - the ugliness of life, the disgusting qualities of offal, the need to buy your sister a gun and tell her just to aim anywhere and shoot.
I don't have a gun. We have a baseball bat and an alarm system. We know that locks are psychological. And somehow, we're still able to assure ourselves, knowing full well that seven registered sex offenders live within two seconds of This Old House, that we are doing the right thing to raise a child in this weird world.
I think you can do more than just buy a gun and spray bullets in the general vicinity of your attacker. I think you can take your optimism and your faith in humanity and spray it in your neighborhood. Then set the alarm and hope for the best.
God protects fools and children.