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the blues | faulty vision

“Daddy! Daaaaaaaaaaddy! Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddy! Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddy!!!!”

“Honey, Daddy is downstairs.”

“I want daddy.”

“Well, he’s busy. You’ll have to wait. Can you be satisfied with just Mommy for a little while?”

Silence.

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddy! Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddy! Come here, Daddy! Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaddy!”

Having a 2 year old is a lot like living with a small, deranged air raid siren.

***

I’ve been rereading Anne Lamott’s wonderful book, Operating Instructions for the last week or so. I’d forgotten how beautifully it’s written, not to mention how much it makes me laugh. When I initially read it, Hobbes wasn’t even a glimmer in the eye; nowadays I read it with an eye angled backwards, to the same first year experiences I had with a new baby at the age of 35. The laughter has an extra edge of rue to it, a kind of, “I hear ya, sister,” that it didn’t have when I first read it.

I wish I’d reread it sooner.

Hence the quasi-regular journaling. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that I have the staying power of your average squirrel. I blog by fits and starts, depending on how introspective (never) I’m feeling. The Guy continues to believe that I have an active brain, in which things are always firing off. The reality behind my occasional lapses of silence, as I’ve frequently told him, is that things have gone fzzzzut. There are entire days when nothing ever happens between synapses: my brain leads its life without sin, largely wrapped in saran wrap. When I’m dead, they will be able to transplant it into someone as an almost new, barely used product.

Lately I’ve taken to wandering through the lavender and blue fields of depression. This is only noteworthy in that it’s pretty rare that I get depressed. Generally speaking, depression implies self-analysis, at least to me. Thinking, creative people get depressed — people like Poe or Shelley or Van Gogh or Beethoven — whereas I’m a suburban product manager with the attention span of navel lint. Of course, theirs was the clinical kind that these days require meds, and in those days ended in knives and earlobes and symphonies and syphilis.1 Mine is the kind that would be resolved with small life changes, which I’m too stupid to make.

Lacking the dramatic flair or the talent to do anything meaningful with my mopes, I generally just tromp around like a Billy Goat Gruff, announcing to everyone I encounter that I’m in a Bad Mood. It is all very gratifying and vaguely soothing to my wounded spirit when my coworkers (accustomed to a more sunny-tempered me) fuss over me and offer sympathy. It is less so when one of the more pragmatic among them points out that her 3 year old does much the same thing, except higher-pitched.

The next phase in all this will probably be for me to stop being cranky and instead shift into martyrdom. Never having been a martyr before — it is, I’m told, a position with limited career growth opportunity — it should be a novel experience, at least.

***

Hobbes raised his little fist in the air. “Chicken!” he shouted.

It was an opportunity too precious to be missed. “Honey,” I said. “Say, ‘Black Power!’”

Yellow power,” the Guy objected.

Hobbes stared at us.

“Ignore your daddy, sweetheart,” I said kindly. “Black power, Hobbes! Say black power!”

“Black poop!” he shouted, and raised a valedictory palm.

We’ll have to work on that.



1. Or maybe started with knives and earlobes and symphonies and syphilis. I’m not sure about the knives and earlobes and symphonies, but I’m fairly sure about the syphilis. [Back to top]

 

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