thorvalson.net : babble ether

Bedknobs and Traction Gear

Ah, yes, the fine art of paper writing. Have I ever told you how much I *love* writing papers? Oh, let me count the ways. Especially when there's an exam scheduled for A&P in the same week and I've been assigned a research topic - which I need to present, as an actual business format research project, complete with charts and graphs (yawn). And it's uniform ordering time. Where in the hell does one buy a stethoscope, anyway? Had I previously known one could buy these things without presenting some kind of documentation, I'd probably have had my own traction system set up in the bedroom years ago.

Where's my kid during all of this? Locked away in the dungeon, of course, forced to scrub the mildewing concrete walls with her fingernails and spit. Clearly I should be put in jail. Alright, it's not that bad, but I am feeling a bit of guilt. It's such a balancing act these days, trying to squeeze actual fun into the schedule. Greg's been trying to make our snippets of time between work/school/sleep memorable by flitting around the house singing to himself about how happy he is not to be in a pine box this fine autumn morning. I'm becoming convinced that he's really a death metal fan in indie clothing. He walks around, waving his arms wildly in front of an imaginary drum kit, making *deuoosh dunh-dunh-dunh deuooosh" sounds through clenched teeth while helping put away the laundry. Last week, we officially entered the phase of our relationship in which the male partner declares unto the female/mother figure of the house, "It's like you have two kids, not one!" AND THEN HE CALLED ME 'MOMMY'. He proceeded to get out of bed, follow Maddie into the bathroom, and pretend he was going to school, too.

You know what I need? Sometime soon, maybe between semesters, I need one of those girly weekend getaways, like Ruth and her sister and Kathy Bates' character on Six Feet Under, where they all sit around a table eating a meal outside, dressed in flowy comfortable garments, drinking several bottles of wine, and laugh until they cry at the ridiculous things their family members do. Like Maddie, trying to convince me a few weeks ago that she was convinced that I don't love her anymore because I get annoyed when she WON'T STOP TALKING during a movie SHE wanted to watch, or because I lecture her on the benefits of cleaning her room (yes, family, you read that right: I LECTURE HER ON THE BENEFITS OF CLEANING HER ROOM). She stood there pouting, arms folded across their chest and said, "I think you don't love me anymore." But she couldn't make eye contact.

"Maddie, look at me."
Silence.
"Maddie, if you're going to accuse me of no longer loving you, you need to look me in the eye when you say it. Look at me."
"What."
Oh my god, she's a teenager already. Fuck.
"Repeat what you said."
"You don't ---"
And then she broke out laughing.
"That's what I thought. Now sit your ass down on this couch, keep your mouth shut, and cuddle with me."

Over and out.

Posted by stephanie at October 23, 2007 07:48 AM