thorvalson.net : babble ether

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

News flash: Raising a child that is not your own can be difficult, especially when said child is 5 (AND A HALF. TODAY, as she is reminding me at this moment) years old. Greg and I have been trying to work together more on getting Maddie to recognize that the earth does not revolve around a 4-foot tall axis who apparently knows everything already and doesn't need further guidance. She's not that bad, really, but could definitely use some work in the manners department. Lately, "please" and "may I" and "thank you" have been replaced by I See, I Want, I NEED, NOW, GIVE IT TO ME.

It's really hard to work on this kind of stuff considering that Maddie's time is split down the middle between two parents who don't communicate. Damn near impossible, now that I read that last sentence. Because his time with Maddie is limited, her dad often tries to fill that time with fun, Maddie-centric activities, i.e., having friends over, going to the park, etc. Which is a good release for her, and she needs that social time. But... things like discipline and cleaning her room tend to fall to the wayside. Who wants to spend the only two hours they have with their child that day enforcing chores? Nobody. And I get that.

On our side of the Great Divide, it's hard enough sometimes trying to figure things out between the two of us, even aside from Maddie's dad. Greg and I came from nearly polar opposite upbringings, and trying to find some peace in the middle can be hard. I was fairly spoiled as a kid, with one parent caving in and giving me the popsicle already while the other one was out on the driveway having a beer. All in all, I turned out alright, I think. Greg's experience was far more strict, and he turned out fabulous, in spite of certain extreme circumstances. Neither of us is for corporal punishment, and we agree on a lot of things about child rearing. But, as in any living situation, everyone has things that drive them absolutely crazy about the other people in the house, behaviors they absolutely cannot stand, and those are the things we need to work on. Namely, Maddie's manners.

I need to be a little more determined in setting limits to the kind of attention she receives, and her dad needs to be a little more strict in enforcing rules. Then hopefully, Greg, who has been magically plopped into a position of Mediator here at Ground Zero, can have some peace. I cave when tired, and her dad is 31 going on 15. He just wants to play. Maddie is the youngest grandchild within driving distance for fifteen individual grandparental figures, and once any of them get their hands on her, it's Cookies! and Of Course I'll Carry You! and Have More Cake! and Did You Get My Birthday Card? and Let's Talk About Jesus While You're Mom's Not Looking! (P.S. Thanks, Mom, for not being in the latter category).

I just don't want to see Maddie on an episode of My Super Sweet 16 in ten years.

At the same time, I've been trying to take Maddie out more. We spend a lot of time together at home over the summer, but much of my time is spent taking care of the house, running errands, sleeping in after a late night at work, etc., and Maddie has to direct her own activities for large chunks of time in the mornings. I don't often sit down to play a game with her, read stories, etc. - at least, not as much as I feel I should. So I've been working on the Fun part of our relationship as well. Thought you might like some pictures.

At the library with Ava, watching a children's musician perform.

At the HiFi Cafe, Girls' Lunch Out.

At the wading pool across the street from our house, gettin' some rays.

First trip this year to Harrington Beach - it came too late in the season, and will hopefully be revisited soon.

Honey Pie, trying desperately to enjoy some relative peace while playing lifeguard.
Don'tcha just wanna smooch him?

Ye Oulde FuddyDuddy

Nothing much new to report here. I've been feeling pretty blah as of late. Summer blues, maybe. I've decided that being in your late 20s really sucks. It's a very in-between place to be. Young enough to still have some interest in staying after work for a pint with the girls to vent and giggle, old enough to run into my ex-husband at the grocery store. Young enough to still wear long hair, old enough to feel silly pulling it back into a ponytail. Young-looking enough to be called "sweetie" by women in my own age group, old enough to feel condescended and want to punch them in the face. Young and blessed enough to have a figure that allows me to still shop in the juniors department, old enough to feel reeeeally old when actually walking through said department. Last night, a co-worker friend of mine and I were talking about the price of gasoline and cigarettes, and how expenses in general have inflated so much over the years, but wages haven't. Not that cigarettes are a necessary expense, and I realize much of the price hike is in taxes, but we just used it as an example.

"When I was 16, cigarettes were less than two dollars a pack. That was fifteen years ago."

Sharp intake of breath. Fifteen years ago? It only took about half a second more to realize that she and I are roughly the same age and it's been that long for both of us.

I don't like staying up past my bedtime too much anymore - once in a while is good, but for the most part, I value my beauty sleep over pints with the girls. My family means more to me than anything else, and any ambitions I had as a young 20something in writing and/or music have been dulled by the more pressing need for balance. I'd rather garden than hang out at the coffee shop; rather read than drink; rather stay home than sit in a smoky room full of lost souls. And for Christ's sake, turn that music down!

I'm just kind of worried for my partner. I'm really not as much fun as I used to be, and I'm aware of it. I'm proud of myself for how far I've come, and I know he's happier for it overall, too. I just need to find new ways to have fun before I become some fuddy-duddy stick in the mud.

No Spring Chicken

Greg had a lot of catching up to do at home yesterday after his annual retreat, so Maddie was my little helper for my 3-hour Tuesday shift.

Paul, our new maintenance guy, who has never met Maddie, who was busy drawing bunnies:

"I like bunnies. But I have a bird feeder in my backyard, and sometimes the bunnies like to eat whatever falls to the ground from the feeder."

Maddie, in an urgent tone of warning:

"Yeah, well, you better watch out for those guys."

Subterranean Homesick Blues

Aah, sweet city of my birth. How your erect skyline doth quiver me timbers:

That's the newspaper building towering over the left bank, serving to remind us that propaganda is above all.

It's been sixteen years since I last rode a boat down the ol' Rock River, and while what I remember as being incredibly impressive to me as a child is now less so (minus the threat of the undertow: Dad's warnings are still embedded into my DNA), there were many new developments that did impress me, although not necessarily in a good way. My God, the development along the northwestern shore! The only justification I can see for owning a house that big is if you're starting a cult. If you are not standing on one of those decks - whose square footage is more than my entire house - worshipping spacecraft and breeding for the Redeemer, you have no business being there. Holy Jesus.
That said, it was comforting to see that the mystical dragons are still alive and well...

... and also that my grandmother's not-so-inner country bumpkin upbringing hasn't been crushed by frequent visits to the harsh environs of the city:

Those are duck feathers coming out of her head.

"I don't know why I picked up these feathers."
"Because you could take them home and glue them to something."
sighs, tossing feathers into the river

Apparently not satisfied with their brief episode as "A Different Kind of Greatness," Rockford has finally recognized and acknowledged its own inherent lack of literary genius and gone back to the sculpting board, opting to show, rather than tell, what Screw City is really all about: The Rockford Symbol. I can remember being on field trips as a child, and as the bus headed toward Sinissippi Gardens, the teacher would stand up and point toward the river.
Alright, children! Look to your left! There it is! THE ROCKFORD SYMBOL!
Curious about the meaning of life right down to the most intimate detail, we all craned our necks to see for ourselves in the hopes of finally answering the Great Question(s): Why are we here? What does our city stand for? WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

A phallus.

Once, there was one such sculpture,

... but the symbolism was lost, what with all those looping swirls of metal.

Now, there are two such symbols, the second one improved from the last model, with its more direct upward thrust. In keeping with the Two Birds, One Stone philosophy that is the motto of such thrifty subcultures, the artist succeeds in communicating to the observer not one, but two main ideas, the first being: UPWARD! ONWARD! DIVIDE AND CONQUER! WITH ALUMINUM!
And the second, bonus suggestion being, LONG LIVE OUR MICROWAVE CULTURE!

At least you try, Rockford. I'll always love you for that.

Crazy Woman Perhaps Just Really Hungry

I've been feeling pretty whacko as of late. Not in a "must be the humidity" kind of way, nor just nicotine withdrawal from my weekly drink-and-smoke binge, which inevitably takes up not just a five-hour chunk of time at a bar, but the entirety of the next full day, recuperating, sure of an impending stroke. No, this is Certifiable Whackoville. Stamp the passport, whir-click of the turnstyle, WELCOME TO PLANET X. There is a morbid fear inside me at the moment, a valid paralysis, at the prospect that I could actually lose my fucking gourd over a 13-year-old burglar. It. Is. So. Irritating. I can physically feel my neurons arguing with each other over which paranoid thought to think first. Did you quadruple-check the windows?
No! Grab a butcher knife and investigate "gunshots" which are, in reality, the revelry of all those children in the neighborhood you were so gung ho about, CELEBRATING A FUCKING HOLIDAY!

Really, it's that out of hand. Yesterday, I found myself saying the words, "Give me valium." Not in many, many years have I actually pondered the healing attributes of heavy barbituates. The good thing about all of this is that, hey! I'm writing! And the bad, of course, is that anyone reading can get a first-hand glimpse of the real scoop on creativity and place your bets. Gregory, so far (knocking on wood), is so far ahead of the pack I can barely see the bottoms of his green sneakers, by, a) wagering on the underdog (me), and b) smacking a 30-year mortgage down on the table that says, "Yes! I will live with this crazy person! AND I WILL LIKE IT!" Take that, Insanity!

I learned yesterday on Whaddya Know? With Michael Feldman on NPR that a poet can add ten years (or was it five?) to her life expectancy if she switches from writing poetry to non-fiction. Duly noted.

All of this has led to some detective work on my part, trying to figure out what it is exactly that has been driving me batshit crazy for the last few weeks so that I can plan an attack. My list of possible suspects thus far is as follows (note: this entire entry is part of the weeding process and if you're exhausted reading it, I don't blame you - have a cup of tea! find a newspaper! take a walk! carry on, then, carry on...):

1. Maddie is home from school for the summer and I have made ZERO time for myself thus far to write, play music, relax, etc.
2. What's more stressful than a new baby? One that's OF A DIFFERENT SPECIES. An alien baby. A 35-pound, drooling, furry, sharp-toothed, alien barking baby WHO ONLY BARKS AT OTHER FURRY, SHARP-TOOTHED MEMBERS OF ITS PACK.
3. My partner is in the midst of our own private Homeland Security development, making him less available to coax his girlfriend out of the cabinet during one of my many daily system overloads. God bless you, Gregory, for keeping your shit together.
4. I'm due for an annual exam, which always, at some point or another pre-exam, convinces me I Have Cancer, not to mention gives me the willies, heebie-jeebies and such, at the prospect of a stranger shoving sharp metallic objects into my holiest of holies.
5. I'm one week off of birth control. Hello, unstable estrogen levels!
(note: maybe the only reason I haven't required mood stabilizers in so many years is because estrogen has done the trick? Hm. Talk amongst yerselves.)
6. My childhood home is steadily creeping its way into the arms of another, as yet unknown, inhabitant.
7. Maddie is now on vacation until next Sunday - Gone Fishin'! No, Really! - waaaaay up north where there are no cellphone towers and thus no communication. I feel safe with her up there - Yoopers don't kill people; they hunt deer. Milwaukeeans kill people, and they HIDE THE BODIES up north. - knowing her chances are much higher of FINDING a body rather than BEING the body, but the resulting silence around here is creating way too much space for my willies to jump around in.
8. IT'S FUCKING MUGGY.
9. It's summertime, the time of year I dread, when physical comfort can only be achieved by wearing as little clothing as possible. Such exposure makes me highly uncomfortable, leaving me with a decision to make: cover myself and sweat it out, or shut up and deal with the skinny and have a fucking drink.
10. I'm an almost 30 years old American waitress - STILL - who spends more money at Target than I do helping other people.

That pretty much covers it.

Read the Tao te Ching.
Re-record the inner tapes. Make changes where necessary.
Drink water.
Eat when hungry.
Shit when full.
Create. Write. PURGE.
Be still.
DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT.

The answer to the question of what is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything? is 42, bunnies don't lay eggs; chickens do, and if you're lost the best thing to do is to stay calm, exactly where you are.

Funny how what they don't tell you is that staying calm, exactly where you are, is also precisely the most difficult thing any human being can accomplish. Anyone. Anytime. Anywhere.

Stop guilting yourself. You would have made a great Catholic, but you're not. So mind the minefields, speak softly and carry a big stick, do your Pilates, let your body do its job and stop hassling it about it, get old, go crazy, reload, and know that GodWhatever has already given you what you need: shelter, food, a family. And they're not going anywhere. With or without documentation.

See? Feeling better already, aren't we? I don't know what your problem was.