tuckova

solar rectal syndrome

I don't remember who taught me about this very serious disease that parents get, whereby they believe that the sun shines from their child's ass, but I always try to keep it in mind when I'm on the verge of praising Squire. Everybody thinks their own kids are great, it's a good way to make sure we don't kill them when they're annoying. Also, if we didn't think our own kids were fantastic, who would? Like, this is the person who you are hormonally gifted to unconditionally love; if you can't do it, who will? 

 

And I do unconditionally love Squire. I only rarely look at him even now, nearly seventeen years on, without feeling a rush of pure love. I love the parts of him that are not like me (his love of video games and music without words, his neglectful hygiene, his preference for red meat and sugar, his patience with stupid people) and the parts that are me (blue eyes, giant ears, the need to rewind the funny parts so he can laugh harder the second time). I loved him when he was five and wouldn't put his damn shoes on when we were late and I wanted to squeeze his lazy head until it exploded but I was prevented from doing so because I loved him. And I loved him when he was nine and so unbelievably miserable and I had to be physically restrained from beating up his stupid teacher for saying he asked to be beaten up in class. And every step of the way I have looked at this love, this overwhelming heart exploding love and thought: Ok, that's it, can't love him more, this is the max, and then the next year comes and whoa, and now I am blown away to see that my grinchy heart has grown seventeen times its original size. 

 

THAT SAID, you guys, that said. He does stupid stuff. There are some things I should have taught him that I did not. I see these flaws in him, some flaws of habit and flaws of thought. None of them are evil, none of them will probably hurt anybody other than him. But I SEE them. And I keep wondering about parents who don't see the flaws in their children, wondering is it because they really think their child is perfect? Or is it because they're unwilling to admit there's something that they could have done differently to prevent that imperfection? Or do they love their children so much they are blind to these flaws?

 

If you know me, you likely know who I'm talking about in particular, though it is a general obsession of mine. I just can't stop thinking about it. Do you not see the flaw, are you unwilling to admit to others that there's a flaw, or are you afraid the flaw is your fault and that's more than you can handle? Is this unconditional love, should love have conditions under some circumstances, when does blindness excuse you from responsibility? Is this the result of the feel-good "raising confident children" style, do most or some people naturally love their children this way, are we all blind to our blindspots (i.e. am I also doing this and just don't see it?). I feel like I've spent more than the average amount of time dealing with people who love their adult children to a shit-don't-stink degree, and I keep coming back to it like a canker sore, and I am no closer to understanding.   

 

monster walks the winter lake

Here is the mouth

to kiss and tell you lies

 

Here are the arms

to hold you and push you away

 

We can find you feet for dancing

Ears for music and late night phone calls

Hair to wrap like a scarf when your neck is cold

Hands to write you a story

Even someone to take the electric shock

of all the things you want and need

your long long list of longing

 

What's the matter dear doctor, 

did you leave out a heart?

 

Well we all knew who the real monster was, didn't we.

solitaire

This game is about stacking. You start with the top priority which is pretty predictably a man but you cannot find him unless you get all the little numbers out of the way first. In that step you have to start small and work up; once you get into the steps with people you start big and work down. So you're stacking in two different directions, basically. Like work, as soon as you manage one thing you have a new thing to manage, over and over, but unlike work eventually you clean up everything right and then it is done and there is a moment of satisfaction before shuffling into the next round. You have to remember that when you're dealing with people the rule is that opposites attract but when you're dealing with the little things you have to put like with like, which reminds you both of feng-shui and your pointy-headed approach to legos. Work to work, money to money, the satisfying snap of one thing on top of another. Meanwhile the people: a space clears for a man and you slide the mismatched woman on top of him. In this game it is possible to cheat but you are only cheating yourself so it is not as satisfying as cheating can usually be though it has the same weight of guilt. You can play this game on the computer and then it even cleans itself up afterwards and disappears when you want it to, like when someone comes in the room and thinks you are working, click once to minimize or twice to make it disappear. Anyway this is not a game to play when you have other people around and interestingly if you play it long enough those people will magically appear, which is why it is also called patience.  

cool and smooth and curious

This metaphor likes to go for walks on the beach. He probably likes sunsets, too, and holding hands. Long slow kisses. But anyway the beach. Walking along collecting pebbles and looking for precious stones, maybe something somebody else threw away. Every step there are more pebbles and he turns them all over, it's a slow walk is what it is, so much attention to be paid, and he's trying to pay attention, although it's hard with so many things to look at. Not this one not that one not the other. In the morning light the water on the pebbles makes so many glint with promise and he picks several, dries them on his sleeve, throws some back, puts others in his pockets. His pockets now heavy with stones he's collected, thumping comfortingly against his legs as he walks, honestly he can barely keep his pants up but he keeps walking, turning, tossing, collecting. He's not even sure what he's doing any more; his attention now entirely on collection rather than on possession. The bowls in his house fill with pebbles, stones, gems too, all neglected, and the beach empties, and he cannot stop looking for what he might already have.