When it comes to parenting the punk rock toddler du defiance, there is no spoon.
There is no knowing what she really means, or how she's actually feeling. There is no telling when the adorable bundle of gooey warmth and love that somehow, miraculously graced your comparitively colorless existence will turn on a dime and become an aggressively depressive nutcase -- careening towards tears while mercilessly manipulating you from the turbulent emotional nexus of teenagers, old European men, and women in the throws of menopause.
This, you already know.
But I've recently re-discovered a place I haven't been since Little-E was brand new. It's a little nook of escapism I'd all but forgotten about now that it's possible to deal with my daughter verbally -- sometimes even rationally. There is no sound here, no movement, and no light. There are no thoughts here. Only quiet.
Welcome to Jonathon's cave. Here, there is no spoon.
(What the fuck? Who's this nu age hippie that ate Jonathon?)
Ok. Even though I've admitted to some rather unfortunate emotional hang-ups here before, and recently told thousands of strangers about my increasingly disturbing problems with jogger's jock rot, this is an admission I'm slightly less comfortable with. Mostly because it makes me sound like a flake.
Someday, however, when fate returns the favor, and Little-E has a child of her own -- an unending source of unfettered affection that can, without a moment's notice, turn into a spitball straight from the very bowels of hell -- she'll say, "Daddy! Help! What do I do?"
And, without a moment's hesitation, I'll say "It's ok, Grown up-E. Just go to your cave. Because remember, there is no spoon."
She'll look at me blankly, while the kid continues writing on her bedroom wall in slimy, diarrhea poop, and I won't feel flaky at all.
There is no knowing what she really means, or how she's actually feeling. There is no telling when the adorable bundle of gooey warmth and love that somehow, miraculously graced your comparitively colorless existence will turn on a dime and become an aggressively depressive nutcase -- careening towards tears while mercilessly manipulating you from the turbulent emotional nexus of teenagers, old European men, and women in the throws of menopause.
This, you already know.
But I've recently re-discovered a place I haven't been since Little-E was brand new. It's a little nook of escapism I'd all but forgotten about now that it's possible to deal with my daughter verbally -- sometimes even rationally. There is no sound here, no movement, and no light. There are no thoughts here. Only quiet.
Welcome to Jonathon's cave. Here, there is no spoon.
(What the fuck? Who's this nu age hippie that ate Jonathon?)
Ok. Even though I've admitted to some rather unfortunate emotional hang-ups here before, and recently told thousands of strangers about my increasingly disturbing problems with jogger's jock rot, this is an admission I'm slightly less comfortable with. Mostly because it makes me sound like a flake.
Someday, however, when fate returns the favor, and Little-E has a child of her own -- an unending source of unfettered affection that can, without a moment's notice, turn into a spitball straight from the very bowels of hell -- she'll say, "Daddy! Help! What do I do?"
And, without a moment's hesitation, I'll say "It's ok, Grown up-E. Just go to your cave. Because remember, there is no spoon."
She'll look at me blankly, while the kid continues writing on her bedroom wall in slimy, diarrhea poop, and I won't feel flaky at all.
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posted by Jonathon Morgan at 7:30 AM
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