Boy in the Bubble
Sam’s sleeping better, obviously, for otherwise you’d be hearing about it non-stop, of that I am sure. It’s one of those things that you just can’t help — you KNOW no one is interested, and you’re SURE that people are so sick of your incessant whining about it, but having a kid who doesn’t sleep is such a bizarre form of domestic terrorism (what?) that sharing it is the only way to cope. Anyway, the effed up thing about parenting is that when you’re in a terrible place, you’re sure that this is how it’s going to be FOREVER, and when things are going well, you think, well! That’s solved! And you brush your hands on your apron like you’ve just completed the world’s largest puzzle, when HA HA, no, that is not how it works. The puzzle comes undone the very next day, or sometimes, it solves itself. You, my friend, have no control — accept it.
When it comes to other parenting challenges, I think I speak for both of us when I say that Adam and I are going to have a seriously difficult time controlling our potty mouths when Sam starts to understand the English language. It’s not just swearing — although to say we’re adept in that area is an understatement — but we’re fans of the lewd joke, of the inappropriate gesture, and of the off-color remark, too. I’m not sure how we’re going to keep it all in check, but I do know we’ve got to at least try, before Sam heads off to preschool and laughingly flips her friends the superfinger, or makes the jerk-off gesture when the teacher says something she doesn’t like.
Ugh, you guys, I am so INCONSISTENT with this, you know? You’ve probably seen it in my entries! One paragraph I’m all, “FUCK THIS SHIT, YO!” and in the next I decide, for reasons completely unknown to me, to say “frackin’ A!” And I don’t even know if I want the kid saying “Frackin’ A, YO!” on the playground, EITHER. Bah. And yet I would also be lying if I said that giving up that part of me — the one with an adult sense of humor and a hard-won knowledge of PRECISELY when to use the word “fuck” for maximum impact — is something I don’t necessarily want to do. Nice, right? I put my own selfish need for talking like a truck driver above my daughter’s potential expulsion from preschool before she even starts her first day.
Paradoxically, however, I’m also annoyed with people who point it out to me now. You guys, she’s SEVEN MONTHS OLD. She can barely string together consonant-vowel combinations and yet when I used the word “balls” in front of her this evening, I swear to you, someone very pointedly looked from my MOUTH to Samantha, as though she was going to pull a Baby Bob and say, “SUCK BALLS” to all of us right then and there. She isn’t. The last comprehensive sound she made was something along the lines of, “DADOOOOOGHEBTH” followed by “BAH! AGEEE!”
Right. Interestingly, at her six-month check-up, the nurse asked me if she was saying any words yet. I mean, seriously, people. I get that it’s some sort of milestone checklist thing, but I am full of the mind that even if a child is technically saying a word at that age, they aren’t really fully capable of assigning its meaning to an object (sign! signifier! Saussure! FUCKING KILL ME), and if they do, they are most definitely ahead of the curve. Like, maybe around the curve and headed to dinner at Applebee’s, where they will order the riblets, please, with extra honey mustard sauce on the side, because surely they are six YEARS old, in some sort of Benjamin Button scenario.
She ALSO asked if Sam understood the word “no,” and I’m here to tell you that the answer to THAT question is an unequivocal no. If she did, I’m fairly certain that she would at least register something other than a giant-ass grin when she clamps her gummy little … uh, gums … down on my nipple for the frillionth time that day (nope, she still doesn’t have any teeth). I’m the kind of person that cares about milestones like this approximately zero percent, but I’d be lying if sometimes it doesn’t feel like those particular questions aren’t so goddamn loaded. I’m sorry, but kids who are raised by CRACKHEADS learn to walk, speak and comprehend basic language. It is completely pointless for me to spend time worrying about whether she’s eventually going to worry about what the word “no,” means, and I’m not going to spend time thinking about it when she’s barely out of the amoeba-like stage of wee infancy. Right now, whether she understands “no” is about as bizarrely arbitrary as whether she follows the damn bell with her eyes.
In other news, I just discovered, for the BAJILLIONTH TIME, that I have sent an e-mail to my friend about dinner this week, except that I DID NOT ACTUALLY SEND IT. It’s in draft. Ergo, we have not had dinner this week. And so help me God, if the draft function in Gmail isn’t going to be the death of me, I don’t know what is. You’re welcome for that little detail, and Meg, HOO BOY, if you’re reading this, I AM EMBARRASSED. I need to just PICK UP THE PHOOOONNNNNEEEEE.
Happy Friday, y’all. Weekend, ahoy! Incidentally, we plan to use the weekend to clean our baseboards, which are VISIBLY GRAY. Like, from DOG HAIR AND DIRT.
I hope yours is more exciting.
*Paul Simon. For the, uhhh, boy in the balloon. Or rather, the boy who was never IN the goddamn balloon, are you fucking KIDDING ME? ARE YOU KIDDING ME, BALLOON KID?
(Note: early in the entry, I say effing. Here, I say fuck. Do you see my problem? DO YOU SEE?)
37 comments October 15th, 2009