My Lonely City

I just read a book that I actually had bought for someone else, but never had the opportunity to give it to them. It’s called ScreamFree Parenting and it’s by Hal somebody. (I wonder, when he gives advice, how often he hears “I can’t do that, Hal” and chuckles – or wishes to scream.) My husband and I spent a few days last week caring for my cousin’s children. It was an … intense experience. Enjoyable, but also frustrating. Hm. Anyway, it made me think of this parenting book, so I dug it out of the armoire where I keep the gift things, unwrap it, and read it over the weekend.

So the premise of this book is that, first, we must focus on ourselves – rather than wholly on our children – and approach parenting as though it were as central a part of our own emotional, psychological, and spiritual development as it is for the children for whom we care. We are not, he continues, responsible for our children, responsible for making them into the kind of people they ought to be; rather, we are responsible _to_ them to give them the resources they need to choose for themselves to become “self-directed, responsible adults”.

When we feel responsible for our children, we respond by emotionally reacting (or overreacting) to their behavior – behavior for which _we_ feel ashamed. When we do this, we are actually pressuring them to change their behavior in order to calm us down. This response is counter-productive because it puts our emotional state, even health, in their power – and their responsibility, which is an overwhelming thing for a child to bear. It also, even more sadly, fails to teach them to make – and be responsible for – their own choices.

The book recommends giving kids their own space – both physical and emotional – while at the same time teaching them their “place” or their relationship to and among others in the family and beyond through healthy structure and consistent, reasonable consequences for the behaviors they choose. I liked the book a lot, despite its tendency to overuse the word “responsible”. I liked most of all, however, the idea that no one is responsible (again, that word …) for meeting your emotional needs but yourself. This is different advice from Harley’s His Needs, Her Needs which argues that in order to have a strong and faithful marriage, each partner’s primary emotional needs must be met by the other partner – or they will be met by someone else. I think both sets of advice are good. Where’s the balance?

I sometimes play guitar; I have for several years. I dabble, really. Acoustic guitar – the same one my Dad bought the day he got out of the Navy in 1969, which rode in the front seat with him on his way back from South Carolina. His cars have changed, the wife has changed, the job, haircut, religion have changed since then. The guitar has survived. I dusted it, when I was young; the neck was too wide for my fingers, then, but I tried anyway. It has three small scratches on the front where I tried to scrape off dirt that had been there for too long. The guitar sounds lovely, especially when my father plays it; round and lush, mellow and deep-throated, like Billie Holiday or that guy who sang Old Man River, whom Grandmama likes so much. Dad gave this guitar to me when I moved out. I play that guitar. Not well, and not often (which may have something to do with the ‘not well’) … but I play.

What I like about guitar playing is its sensuality. Here, you’re wrapped around this vaguely human-shaped object, warming the wood with the heat of your body, running your hands along its sinews, pressing your fingertips into it. Your arm sticks to the curve, making a slaaptching sound as you strum; your fingertips throb and tingle on the frets. You can feel the music, the rhythm, the energy of the sounds curled up and purring like a cat against your chest and belly. You can smell the slightly dusty varnish, feel the smooth dryness of its wood on your wrist. Of course, how you sound is rather variable, but … how you feel is great.

Really, there’s not a lot of practical information I can pass on about playing the guitar. Get a tuning thingamajig. If I can only find mine, I’m sure I will sound much, much better. Find songs you like – songs you enjoy hearing, over and over, and over again, and learn them. I took lessons for a while; they helped, but I don’t think they were quite suited to my … learning style. I like learning things that build on one another, like lincoln logs. Except I didn’t like lincoln logs. Scratch that, then. Anyway, the point is, guitars = cheap, obsessive fun. As long as you get the guitar for free.

So my phone, which is my alarm clock – which I’ve cleverly begun putting in the bathroom, to make myself get up to turn it off, and thus make myself much more likely to get up when it goes off – went off an hour early this morning. Not because I’d mis-set it, but because the police – yes, the police – were trying to get hold of my husband. Before this goes in all sorts of wrong directions, it was because the garage door was open at our office, and our cell phones were the only listed numbers they could find for people with our last name in the area. Um, my last name is Morgan. It’s pretty common. Hm. Anyway, 4:00 a.m. To tell us about a garage door five miles away. Here’s the (funny, to me, now) exchange:

Phone: bzzz, bzzz …

Me: (in my twisted little mind) Gah! Giant retail hanger-fetcher poles trying to disassemble the universe! (waking up a bit more) Mmm… morning … WTF, it’s four o’clock – I have another hour, you stupid phone (out loud) Um, hello?

Official-but-pleasant-sounding Lady: Hello. This is (something-something), with the Moore Police Department; I’m looking for Jared Morgan.

Me: …. um, he’s asleep right now?

OBPS Lady: Does he work at (our office address, or perhaps an address in Timbuktu for all I knew)?

Me: Yes? Um? (picturing twenty-foot-high flames engulfing our office, the CAD prints I’ve been falling asleep over reduced to gratifying flakes of ash … )

OBPS Lady, with considerably more patience than I probably deserved: Could you wake him up please?

Me: Okay?

(wake up my husband, give him the phone, let the cats in, turn the light on …

Jared: The garage door. At the office. It’s broken.

Me: Okay.

Us: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz……………..

I saved a baby cricket from working in our office this morning; I know how scared I would be if I was snatched from my surroundings by something roughly two thousand times my size, but still. Just relax; I’m not going to hurt you. Really.

And then when I went to put him down outside, he sat on my hand for a few seconds, and I had to shoo him off onto the ground. I tell you.

So last night my friend and I went to one of our favorite restaurants in Norman, OK, Misal (seriously tasty tabouleh salad, and the veggie samosas are one of my new most frequent cravings), which was busier than it’s ever been because of some unknown event that was screwing up traffic like a game day. We sat behind (before? near? beside?) a large-ish family with two young children who behaved as young children often do. The boy, who was the younger and by far the louder of the two – probably three years? four? – was sitting directly behind me. So as I’m trying to listen to my friend’s conversation I’m hearing a simultaneous stream of “Strawberry shortcake? Where’s the guy? That guy? That guy! There he is!” as the waiter comes over and laughs. (The wait staff are all awesome, too.) So he orders strawberry shortcake, kind of. All sorts of fun. He leaned over the back of my booth at one point to gaze at my purse (which I moved out of his reach … ) but that got shut down pretty fast. It was really more a source of amusement than frustration or annoyance. As the family left, the (I think) grandmother came over and apologized to us. That was … nice, in a way. Refreshing, that someone acknowledge the disruption.

I feel like there’s a great piece of commentary that should slide in here, but I can’t think of it, so I’ll just sign off. Hopefully I’ll be back soon.

So you thought your family was crazy. Turns out, according to this extremely official-looking note-which-supports-what-I-already-thought, I’m likely related to the MacNaughtons (my maiden name is McNatt). Whose motto is, I sh*t you not, “I hoip in God.” Yes! I hoip in God! My ancestors not only had rather dodgy taste (I shouldn’t complain; at least they weren’t Craigs), but they also couldn’t spell worth a darn. No wonder I have so many issues. (But at least their hoip was in the right place.)

But getting back to crazy, according to this fun little history as well as the ubiquitous Wikipedia reference, the MacNaughtons made a name for themselves in part by being the first to establish insanity as a legitimate defense during a murder trial. And being generally rowdy and prone to support violent and often futile political uprisings, but I gather that was pretty normal, eh. There’s lots of fun stuff to go with here, but I’ll refrain for now, and just add that, well, I hoip in God.

My neighborhood is a zero-lot-line addition. This means that each home is built with one exterior wall on the lot line of the neighbor’s property, and that wall makes up part of that neighbor’s backyard fence. Obviously there are no windows in that wall. The other windows in the houses face either forward toward the street, backward into one’s own yard (with its comes-standard privacy fence) or occasionally sideways onto one’s front yard. Everyone keeps their windows covered; plantation or imitation-plantation (tongue-twisters of the world, unite!) blinds are the most popular.

We’re all trapped in these cages, living in solitary confinement. We’re cordoned off by windowless walls and wooden fences, rattling against our loneliness like pebbles in an empty jar.

I’m exhausted. I just spent an extremely intense week as a camp counselor at a children’s camp for kids who have been abused or neglected. Oh. My. God. I may be able to sift my thoughts into something coherent over the next few days or weeks, but there’s no chance tonight. So I’m going to talk about something else (or rather, something only loosely connected).

I spend a lot of energy and focus on things that don’t matter. Or rather, that don’t warrant the time that I spend on them. I need to focus on the things that _do_ matter: loving God with all my heart, my soul, my mind, and my strength; and loving others as I love myself. (And perhaps I need to work on taking care of, and loving, myself, too.)

I’m rapidly falling asleep. But I’m going to SLEEP IN tomorrow, so it’s okay. ^_^

So my Best Friend (at least since 8th grade, which seems like forever ago, so the term actually almost applies, scary as that is) has had a spot of trouble with snoopy out-laws lately. No need to go into the details (nor would I be at liberty to do so even if there was a need), but I got to thinking. I might as well be considerate and save any similar nosies some trouble, if they take a notion to snoop in my direction.

I drink, but I don’t smoke. I curse like a sailor, depending on the company. I don’t do any drugs that have not been specifically prescribed to me by a doctor, and I never have. Except for occasional speeding and an illegal u-turn or two, I have never broken the law. Unless you count jaywalking. I didn’t drink alcohol until I was twenty-one, even when I was in countries (Mexico and New Zealand) whose drinking-age laws would have permitted me to do so. The worst thing I have ever done was made out with a boy who was engaged – engaged! to someone else! what was I thinking?! – on the way back from my senior trip.

I didn’t have sex until after I got married. (Yes, really.) I have never cheated on my husband. I love him very much, and love sharing my life with him. Most of the time it’s easy to love him; sometimes I love him because I promised him I would. Marriage is harder than I thought it would be, but it’s also more rewarding.

I sometimes hate spending time with my family – immediate-ish and extended – because I feel we have very little in common. I spend time with them anyway, because it’s the right thing to do.

I love God but Christians piss me off. I’m a vegan, feminist social critic with dozens of radical, half-formed ideas and almost no-one to bounce them off of. I complain a lot about being lonely and having no-one to talk to, but I don’t seek out any new relationships because I’m a lazy fraidy-cat a lot of the time.

I volunteer. I tithe. I pray. I read the Bible semi-regularly, though not as often as I ought to. I try to understand how God wants me to apply what I read to the way I behave. What I keep coming back to is this: Treat others the way you want to be treated.

I tip. I sing loudly in the car by myself. I sometimes preach sermons to people who are not, physically, present with me. I pick up paper towels that bastards in public restrooms throw on the floor. (Sometimes.) I wear underwear when trying on swimming suits.

I have a concealed-carry permit (somewhere). I enjoy shooting bottles and targets, and I’m pretty good at it. I doubt I could shoot a person, though, because I don’t want to be shot. Even in self-defense.

Sometimes I carry insects and spiders outside when they get in; sometimes I kill them. I don’t feel guilty. My cats are both declawed – though I wouldn’t make that decision again.

I lost my first child this year – a missed miscarriage six weeks after conception, discovered around four weeks later. It tore my world apart. I’m getting used to the pieces floating around, and I’m not trying to fit them together yet.

I think too much. But I’m okay with it.

Satisfied?

I rescued some starling chicks today! They had fallen from their nest into our backyard. I was so sad when I saw them on our lawn, looking small, lost, and scraggly.

I called WildCare yesterday evening, after giving them a day to try to get back on their own, and they told me what to do. (WildCare is an awesome animal hospital/facility in Noble that rehabilitates wild animals for re-release.) Since the nest is actually inside my neighbors’ dryer vent it was inaccessible; they had me put the babies in a cushioned basket near the nest to see if the parents would find them and move house. If it didn’t work, the woman I spoke with told me to bring them to their facility.

My husband helped me tie a basket to our fence, sheltered by a trumpet vine; I put on some gardening gloves (I’ve heard, but can’t verify, that parent birds will reject chicks who smell like humans) and placed them carefully in the basket. They were frightened and upset, but they knew they were in a nest again; they opened their yellow-envelope beaks wide and cheep-cheeped with gusto. I left them there, hoping for the best, and kept my distance the rest of the evening. I checked in the morning, and they were there; I hoped that by the evening the adults would have found and fed them.

When I arrived back home, they were still in the nest, but they barely moved and made no sound. They panted – I haven’t seen birds pant before (that’s what it looked like to me). I decided to take them to the animal hospital. As we drove, I watched the birds. They were afraid but curious, continually raising their heads to look out the window, huddling together, opening their beaks silently for food. One cheeped, once or twice, but that was all. They were not “adorable”. Their feathers are starting to grow, so they look rough and prickly; their quills look like straw wrappers with black fuzz poking out the top. Their yellow beaks looked too wide for their heads, opening and closing like folded paper. Their baby fuzz poofed like a halo around their heads. They were such small, perfect, beautifully strange things.

At the hospital, the interns were knowledgeable and kind; the babies are in good hands. Since WildCare’s objective is to release their animals into the wild at the appropriate time, I feel they will have a good life. I told the parents what I’d done, but – since I don’t speak Starling – they are probably, like me, still wondering, perhaps grieving, asking why their children were taken from them.

I’m going to be a counselor at a summer camp for children in my county who have been abused or neglected.

Oh my gosh.

Oh my gosh! I’m so excited and nervous and scared and elated … and surely other things, too. :o) My mother-in-law was the music director last year, when a body from her then-church held the camp under the organization and leadership of a national – indeed, international – organization. She returned full of stories and emotions; I was fascinated and moved. From what I heard her say, and what I heard from the leadership in their informational meeting, the people and the organization are doing a great thing, and doing it well. What impresses me most at this time is their careful rejection of the idea of “saving” or rescuing the children, and the deliberately narrow focus of creating good memories for the kids who attend.

I think what resonates with me about this strategy is that it is a positive, rather than negative, approach to the problem of child abuse. I mean, I think it’s easier to focus on, and perhaps drown in, the overwhelming statistics, the grief and fury, the images and stories of people who rape, beat, torture, and neglect the children in their care – easier than it is to do what I can with what I have.

I can’t reach everyone who is suffering, child or adult. Even if I could, I couldn’t end all the suffering in the world; I’m not wise or resourceful enough for that. But I can listen, and learn, and work. I can go out of my way to make things better, for a little while and for a few people and animals.

Creating a society in which all children are safe from harm, respected as people, and emotionally & intellectually equipped to live lives of fulfillment and meaning is a long-term project. Not impossible – nothing is impossible – but I doubt I will live in such a society this side of heaven. But here, now, I will do what I can with what I have.

I’m both excited and apprehensive, right now; I’m excited because giving and serving are exciting to me. That’s who I am. I get to serve children who matter to God. I’m apprehensive because I’ve never done this before. I don’t have any younger (or older) siblings; I haven’t spent a lot of time around children. I’m eager and willing to learn how to be an effective counselor, but I don’t know what to do yet. And if you know me, you know that I like … knowing. But, God’s grace is sufficient for me, and his power is made perfect in weakness, eh?

I was going to send individual e-mails to everyone, but I realized I would just be writing the same thing over and over again. So how are you? Anything new and exciting? Keep me posted on what’s going on in your life. ~Christina (05/18/2007)

Hey Christina –

Things are pretty good. I miscarried our first baby three weeks ago, so they could be better, but there you go. I’ve just left one job (an administrative assistant for a Realtor in South Oklahoma City) and will be starting another – as a tech with Jared’s Dad’s telecommunications company, SKShemor – on Monday. I’m excited, but a little nervous, about that. Jared’s doing well & staying busy. His tag-printing business may be expanding later this year depending on how the state legislature rules on some pending temporary used car tag legislation. He’s not doing custom websites anymore, for the most part. We’re still on the board of CAM, helping prep for this year’s summer camps (the eighth year, can you believe?). I realized yesterday that I graduated high school six years ago. That was a jolt, rather; I’d thought I’d be … further along, you know? I’m not sure exactly what I expected from myself then, but I feel like I haven’t quite lived up to it, whatever it was. But things are good. I’ve become a vegan, which is something new and different (and I like new and different – I’m also finding that I like cooking, which is odder still). My closest friend since High School is moving to Texas with her fiance. And I’m thinking again, as I usually do when the weather starts warming up, about finding a hobby besides piddling on the internet and putting off doing dishes. How are things with you?

Yours,

Melissa

I have a relative who is a beer snob. (No, really. You have no idea.) My husband’s not really a beer fan – or much alchohol, though he sometimes enjoys margaritas, bloody marys, and chardonnay. I like wine quite a bit, and occasionally a margarita. Dark beer is yummy, but only every once in a while; it tastes so thick. However, I had a wheat beer a while back, and got the hankering to try it again.

Oh. My. Gosh. This is my favorite beer by far (though I still prefer wine). Which is funny, because there’s another that I’ve tried that tastes like (more resembles or suggests, really) chocolate & coffee, & you’d think that would be my favorite. Not a bit of it. Wheat is sooo good. I don’t think I want to drink it often, though; I’m comfortable with my two or three drinks per month quota. Water’s better for me anyway.

I got to hold a baby today. Cheryl, the morning receptionist at our office, just became a grandmother, and her daughter brought their five-day-old up to the office today. Cheryl brought him back to Deborah’s office and then – blow me away – asked if I wanted to hold him. If?!? Of course, I said I’d love to. And I did. Evan. He was beautiful. He would stretch a bit, put his mittenned hands over his eyes or ears, and wrinkle his face up. He’d purse his lips and bunch his chin, curl his toes under, arch his back against my arm. He’d relax, snuggled in my arms, his face toward my chest. I held him and hummed to him. I held him in our office for a few minutes, then carefully carried him up to the front, where I met his mother & father, who were lovely people. We talked, and I was able to keep holding him for another fifteen minutes or so, until my bottom arm’s wrist started to cramp and I thought I ought to give him back.

It helped.

In further news – news in the sense of sad – my in-laws had to put their dog Sadie to sleep today. Jared & I went over to their house last night to say goodbye; Jared had picked her out when she was a puppy.

Maybe she and Pi can look after each other while they wait for us.