Stationary Unicycle

Ah the 21st Century. Tonight, thanks to the magic of the internet fairies and the hard work of the hamsters that power my computer, I have been edified and entertained. Well done Internet Fairies, and a heart felt bravo to the hamsters. Remind me to put some oil on that wheel.   My early morning insomnia inspired me to hit the net, and I started off with a cursory howdedoo on face book. Then for no particular reason I checked out Boing Boing, just because, and there I read a cool review of a graphic novel for kids which I SO Want to have. http://www.nobrow.net/9580 On Boing Boing I saw a video parody of "Gangnam Style" by Ai Weiwei. I have a secret crush on him. I watched it. I was confused because I had never watched the original "Gangnam Style" ... so I checked it out. My new favorite song!  I <3 you PSY! Sorry Ai. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0 I then fell in love and cried while I watched Lana Wachowski's brilliant speech. http:...

So, what would you say to a 9 year old who is in the midst of an existential crisis that would make Camus weep? I think this perceptive boy has seen under my veil, knows that I feel my life has no meaning, so encouragement from me rings hollow. My son says, "Nothing matters. Life is meaningless." Yes, sure, life has meaning, son. Cough. Cough. Wouldn't you rather know how babies are made? I want to be happy. I want to be the kind of mother who is always full of light and sunshine, patience and gentleness, Valium and bourbon. I'm just not that kind of person. I don't have it in me. I can't even fake it. I'm a cynic, a gentle soul with a short fuse. I'm a hugger and a yeller. I run on coffee and adrenaline. I don't think life has meaning. I don't believe in much. I don't believe in Karma. If I did I would think I'd done something REALLY REALLY bad in a previous life. I don't believe in God but I'm not above ...

At some point in this crazy fun house ride called parenthood, I figured I'd get a break, I figured that when the kids reached a certain age I would be able to get a normal nights sleep. But no. I've been averaging between 4 and 5 hours of sleep a night which provides me with enough manic adrenaline induced energy to make it through the first 6 hours of the day. With well timed caffeine injections boosting me along I'm good for about 6 more hours. However, after that, it's all over. I can't sleep but I'm not really functioning as a conscious person. I drool on the couch, grunt to my kids, raise my eyebrows at my husband and pray for sleep or death, which ever comes first. By 9 p.m. I'm a quivering bowl of something that quivers in a bowl...like maybe, tomato aspic with beef tongue. I digress.   By 9 p.m. most good little girls and boys are in bed fast asleep, but because my kids are neither good nor little -- they are both so much bet...

But I'm mad and tired. I'm brimming with mad and tired. So. My brain has jammed. I can't write about what's really going on. And I can't think of anything else. I've been reduced to fishing for writing prompts. Which brings out the surly school girl...truant, pissed off. Only now I'm a surly middle aged woman with a neck wattle. Don't fucking tell neck wattle woman what to do even though neck wattle woman is begging someone to tell her what to do. Mercurial. Full of contradictions. Also an asshole. So, if I had gotten this particular writing prompt as a pissed of girl in high school this is what I would have written. Writing prompt. "My dog is really special because" I don't want to tell you about my dog, what do you think this is, fucking kindergarten? What a waste of time. My dog is really special because he eats his own shit and he tries to hump the cat. My dog is really special because he's a ...

The kids have been sick with a cold for a few days now and should be feeling somewhat better today, once they trip trap down the stairs I'll see if I'm right about that. In the meantime, I am coming down with this delightful virus. I understand how viruses work, but there is that part of my underdeveloped villager brain that thinks this cold is God's divine plan and he want to make me suffer twice. Once while catering to sick children, picking up countless dirty tissues off the floor, the table, and the arm of the couch, and watching the same 3 episodes of Myth Busters over and over and over again.    The second round of punishment, when my kids are well and need me to continue to wash their clothes, clean the house, cook meals and play referee and coach,with my head full of snot and lungs full of phlegm and body aches and a fever.    What I'd really like to do is sit  on the couch, blow my nose, leave my dirty tissues everywhere and watch episodes of...

"We become sad in the first place because we have nothing stirring to do."  Herman Melville   "Find things that stir you. Open yourself. Get stirred. "   Margaret Miller-Finch Take that anyway you want. Sounds like it could be sort of fun.      When the children were new and small and wondrous, before their brilliance burned me blind, I was happy. Well, perhaps I'm waxing nostalgic. That's the only sort of waxing I do, neither legs nor floors, only nostalgia. Thinking back on the blur of early motherhood,  an image of myself  flickers before my eyes. Linda Blaire and Mother Theresa in one body, looming there in the shadows. Lurking, menacing, yet humble and loving.    One moment lovingly bathing the child with lavender scented bubbles and warm water, patiently dressing and diapering the child, gently rocking him to sleep, tucking the sleeping babe in his cozy crib.   The next, smashing and stomping and ki...

I'm smart enough to realize I am not brilliant but not dumb enough to be happy. It's sort of like being tall enough to see up in the cupboard but too short to reach the can of beans on the top shelf. I can get a step stool, or even clamber onto the counter like a middle aged monkey, stand to my staggering 5' 5" with my dirty feet planted firmly on the counter top and grab the beans, but I'm not motivated enough to do that. Not for beans. Chocolate yes. My son has somehow come to the conclusion that he is stupid. He says it dozens of times every day. "I'm stupid." My son has been asking questions about intelligence. He's heard about the IQ test. He wants to put himself in a place. He wants a score, a grade.  He wants to prove he's either as smart as he thinks he is or as dumb as he feels. My son took an IQ test in 1st grade as part of the assessment to determine the nature of his learning difficulties. What we found w...