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ninanevermore.
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If someone were to draw a line and ask all the good and noble people to stand on one side, and all the scoundrels, miscreants, and generally unpleasant people stand on the other, I would have to straddle the line with one foot planted solidly on either side. Whenever someone praises my basic human decency I have to cringe a little, because I know for a fact that I about as mediocre as mediocre gets. I carry mediocrity to new heights (or depths, as the case may be). No other woman in the entire history of human kind has been more mediocre than I am.
The angel on my right shoulder and the devil on my left shoulder have abandoned their posts and now sit on the top of my head playing poker, shooting dice, and making sarcastic remarks about me that only I can hear. The angel got fed up after I passed on so many opportunities to do real good, and the devil was equally dismayed by my refusal to do real harm. So now they gamble in the tangles of my hair (which is always in disarray because they wrap it around themselves t o keep from falling off), and my actions on any given day are governed in large part by whichever one of them is winning at the moment.
Except for the occasional swearing, poker days are rather quiet up there atop my head. Most of the swear words, surprisingly enough, come from the angel. The devil is snide, but keeps it clean. I find the days they shoot craps more annoying, what with the tiny dice thumping and rolling across my skull and giving me headaches. If you ever see me slap the top of my head for no apparent reason, it's to tell them to keep it down. They hate when I do that. The devil stabs me with her petite pitchfork, and the angel pulls my hair to get even; as uncomfortable as that may be, at least I know I got my point across when I feel that.
So, whose big idea was it that I – a lifelong loser in large part of my lack of willingness to take any real risks – should become the mother of a child in need of a champion? I was a barely adequate mother of a normal child; I am ill prepared to be the brand of extraordinary that is being asked of me now that my little boy's developmental quirks are becoming apparent.
Once upon a time, I was an awesome girlfriend to have. I was always good at being a girlfriend, from the time I was a teenager. I was still an amazing girlfriend throughout my 20s. Then I became a wife at the age of 31, and found that it is different than the girlfriend gig and requires a lot more work and cooperation, neither of which are my forte. I get lost too easily in my own head, or maybe in a novel I am reading or a project I am working on.
Sometimes I miss living alone and being only beholden to myself. By sometimes, I mean "often." As a girlfriend, I could call up my beloved to make plans, or say that I'd rather take it easy and we could meet up in a couple of days. The wife thing is much, much different; more than a little gold ring and a piece of paper would make you think, even. The mother thing compounds the differences by 100. I have no real talent for either role. But for all my flaws, I am not a quitter. One of these days I may drop dead and hopefully after a few months of mourning a more competent woman can come into their lives (perhaps bearing a casserole dish to console them) and make up for all the years they have had to put up with me. They should be so lucky.
The "Problem Solving Team Meeting" at my son's school is scheduled for the Monday after next (October 4th). I have a rough idea about what to expect based on things I have read. If my child were quiet and withdrawn, he would be less of a problem to solve and would garner more patience and sympathy. He is disruptive and sometimes violent, so I expect a little less patience and a lot more urgency from the faculty and staff members of the team. I'm on the team, too, since as the mother of the child with problems I was automatically drafted. My husband and I will be the only ones in the room who have not played the game before, and no doubt we will likely play a little awkwardly. I'm awkward at every game I play, so I'm used to being the one that everyone dreads having on any team.
"Give 'em hell," the angel says, I assume to me, though she quickly turns her attention to other matters. "Ha! Full House. Beat that, Sulfur Breath."
"I fold," says the devil cordially, "Want to go again? Oh, and she'll fail miserably. It's what she does best. The poor kid needs a champion, and he winds up with this chump."
"I don't expect much from her," the angel agrees, "so I won't be disappointed either way. I'm bored with cards; let's shoot dice for awhile."
I smack the top of my head, harder than usual. It hurts, but it makes me feel better.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *
.
.
If someone were to draw a line and ask all the good and noble people to stand on one side, and all the scoundrels, miscreants, and generally unpleasant people stand on the other, I would have to straddle the line with one foot planted solidly on either side. Whenever someone praises my basic human decency I have to cringe a little, because I know for a fact that I about as mediocre as mediocre gets. I carry mediocrity to new heights (or depths, as the case may be). No other woman in the entire history of human kind has been more mediocre than I am.
The angel on my right shoulder and the devil on my left shoulder have abandoned their posts and now sit on the top of my head playing poker, shooting dice, and making sarcastic remarks about me that only I can hear. The angel got fed up after I passed on so many opportunities to do real good, and the devil was equally dismayed by my refusal to do real harm. So now they gamble in the tangles of my hair (which is always in disarray because they wrap it around themselves t o keep from falling off), and my actions on any given day are governed in large part by whichever one of them is winning at the moment.
Except for the occasional swearing, poker days are rather quiet up there atop my head. Most of the swear words, surprisingly enough, come from the angel. The devil is snide, but keeps it clean. I find the days they shoot craps more annoying, what with the tiny dice thumping and rolling across my skull and giving me headaches. If you ever see me slap the top of my head for no apparent reason, it's to tell them to keep it down. They hate when I do that. The devil stabs me with her petite pitchfork, and the angel pulls my hair to get even; as uncomfortable as that may be, at least I know I got my point across when I feel that.
So, whose big idea was it that I – a lifelong loser in large part of my lack of willingness to take any real risks – should become the mother of a child in need of a champion? I was a barely adequate mother of a normal child; I am ill prepared to be the brand of extraordinary that is being asked of me now that my little boy's developmental quirks are becoming apparent.
Once upon a time, I was an awesome girlfriend to have. I was always good at being a girlfriend, from the time I was a teenager. I was still an amazing girlfriend throughout my 20s. Then I became a wife at the age of 31, and found that it is different than the girlfriend gig and requires a lot more work and cooperation, neither of which are my forte. I get lost too easily in my own head, or maybe in a novel I am reading or a project I am working on.
Sometimes I miss living alone and being only beholden to myself. By sometimes, I mean "often." As a girlfriend, I could call up my beloved to make plans, or say that I'd rather take it easy and we could meet up in a couple of days. The wife thing is much, much different; more than a little gold ring and a piece of paper would make you think, even. The mother thing compounds the differences by 100. I have no real talent for either role. But for all my flaws, I am not a quitter. One of these days I may drop dead and hopefully after a few months of mourning a more competent woman can come into their lives (perhaps bearing a casserole dish to console them) and make up for all the years they have had to put up with me. They should be so lucky.
The "Problem Solving Team Meeting" at my son's school is scheduled for the Monday after next (October 4th). I have a rough idea about what to expect based on things I have read. If my child were quiet and withdrawn, he would be less of a problem to solve and would garner more patience and sympathy. He is disruptive and sometimes violent, so I expect a little less patience and a lot more urgency from the faculty and staff members of the team. I'm on the team, too, since as the mother of the child with problems I was automatically drafted. My husband and I will be the only ones in the room who have not played the game before, and no doubt we will likely play a little awkwardly. I'm awkward at every game I play, so I'm used to being the one that everyone dreads having on any team.
"Give 'em hell," the angel says, I assume to me, though she quickly turns her attention to other matters. "Ha! Full House. Beat that, Sulfur Breath."
"I fold," says the devil cordially, "Want to go again? Oh, and she'll fail miserably. It's what she does best. The poor kid needs a champion, and he winds up with this chump."
"I don't expect much from her," the angel agrees, "so I won't be disappointed either way. I'm bored with cards; let's shoot dice for awhile."
I smack the top of my head, harder than usual. It hurts, but it makes me feel better.
