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?

Do you remember this post? I feel just like that today.

Exactly. Like. That.

If I hear “it’s the Most! Wonderful! Time! of the Year!” once more, I’m going to rip someone’s throat out with my teeth. And that’s if I’m feeling charitable. I went to Wal-Mart during my lunch break today, the Friday before Christmas. NEVER do this. Opt instead for brain surgery without anesthesia, opt for Chinese water torture, opt for being run over by a busload of overweight tourists from New Hampshire – anything besides this insane scheme. When I finally escaped, there was a group of high-school-aged, trying-to-look-cool-and-thuggish youths swaggering in, reeking of braggadocio. I’d’ve just loved them to try accosting me; I was fit to beat something to a quivering mass of apologetic hamburger. I glared and marched, my heels clacking like battledrums on the crosswalk, just daring them to even look my way.

They walked right on past.

Bastards.

Happy Guy Fawkes Day!

And for your disquieting song of the day, the un-condensed version of the rhyme opening V for Vendetta, taken from Wikipedia:

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t’was his intent
To blow up King and Parliament.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England’s overthrow;
By God’s providence he was catch’d
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

A penny loaf to feed the Pope
A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah hoorah!

The men in the text are all leaders – revolutionary, established, and religious – and are played off against one another. As the rhyme suggests God’s “providence” extends only to the King, it serves to entrench even more firmly in the popular imagination the legitimacy of the federal authority and the futility of either rebellion or dissent. I have more to say regarding the second verse, but I really ought to get to work. I’ll return later – I hope.

Do you ever just feel fat? I mean, you don’t feel anything but fat, and it drives you so insane that you just have to eat something?

No?

Oh, well. I guess it’s just me.

Actually, I’m not fat. I’m not even overweight. I’m within the recommended BMI range, and, in fact, I’m exactly at the “ideal weight” number for my height & frame size. But sometimes – no, often – this information is not very comforting.

Yes, I ate too much today – too much for me, anyway. And I had a snow cone. Gah. (Brandy and Cappuccino, though; good combination.) And I had a margarita tonight as well – a margarita that was probably 90% alcohol, or at least felt that way sliding its savagely numbing way down my throat.

So anyway, the point here is that I’m trying – I’ve got a binder w/ goals and everything, nerd that I am – to lose weight, even though I don’t really need to. Because I would look better. To myself. And I’m trying to balance my desire to be skinny, thin, svelte, or what-have-you, with my suspicion that 1) I’m succumbing to the misogynistic propaganda of underfed, overworked, waif-like beauty perpetuated by our out-of-their-gourd society, and 2) I’m allowing myself to be sidetracked and diverted. From what, I’m not sure. Maybe from everything, but if that was the case, surely I’d be a little less spastic; after all, focusing on one thing at a time must be a bit of a relief no matter how obsessively you pursue it.

But the fact remains, this is something I want to do. Except I also want to have a child. These things don’t really go together.

I’m kind of a basket case right now. For no real reason, but then, what kind of reason would be good enough for turning one into a basket case?

What the hell is a basket case, anyway? I mean, I understand the concept – basket-weaving in mental health institutions, etc., but why the appeal of the term? Why its longevity?

And does it help?

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.

Sing to the LORD, praise his name;

proclaim his salvation day after day.

Declare his glory among the nations,

his marvelous deeds among all peoples.

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 realized that I never explained why the “It’s Greek to you…” marquis made me so angry: It so perfectly illustrates the snobbery, elitism, and guilty, defensive arrogance rampant in the Christian community. “We know you don’t get why we believe in Jesus. We don’t want you to, because having a secret makes us feel better about the way we’re failing to serve him.” Grow up, people.

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

You know how you have random thoughts, disconnected from pretty much everything, and then one thing leads to another and the next thing you know you’re thinking about being executed by beheading?

No?

Well, anyway, I was thinking about immigration. (I can see you scowling already; calm down.) And about how trying to keep the other kids from playing with our toys may not be the best solution. Maybe we should forget about citizenship and just have … being-here-ships. Where, you know, where you are determines how you’re expected to behave. And when you’re here, no matter who or where you were before, you play nice. And if you don’t, no matter who you are, we’ll shoot ya. (DISCLAIMER This post does not express my views on capital punishment.)

And then I was thinking about (it’s early, give me a break) the environmental impact of shooting as a form of execution. The one in the head method, versus the firing squad method. It doesn’t seem to me that guns produce a lot of litter (unless you count wrongful deaths, but even for someone who believes in an afterlife, bodies aren’t just waste). But there are of course the bullets. And whatever materials are wasted and pollution is produced in making them, not to mention the guns that shoot them. And so I was wondering about recycleable (does that have an ‘e’ in it?) execution methods, and I relized that the French were the greenest when they did away with folk on their guillotine. (I saw a wrestling commercial when Jared & I went to dinner the other night, and it had a guillotine in it; maybe that’s where this came from.) And then, as my mind does, I saw myself into the situation, wrongfully accused or perhaps being persecuted for religious reasons, led quite literally to the slaughter. Ack.

And on that happy note I was wondering what I would say if I were given the chance, knowing that it was my last opportunity to say anything. So here, for your reading pleasure, are my last words:

To God be the glory for ever. And to his son, Jesus Christ, who came into the world to save and change it, and who reigns on high as the King of kings and the Lord of lords. And to his Spirit, whose divine presence gives us the assurance of our hope, that the God of love and grace, the God of wrath and mercy, the God of holiness and power will recieve us as his own, and grant us eternal life. To this God, whose grace is sufficient for our insufficiencies, whose perfect love is enough to drive out our fear, and whose might is great enough to save, be the glory for ever and ever. Amen.

I just wanted to say that I disagree with the new Pope; I think the church did force itself on the existing cultures of Latin America. And I’m not sure that the people in those cultures were “silently longing” to become Christians.

Just a thought. Perhaps we would be better evangelists if we could admit previous evangelical mistakes.

“You know that tea’ll kill you,” Dan says, stirring his coffee.

“Everything will kill you, eventually,” I reply, smiling.

“Ain’t that the truth?”

“I figure, you might as well enjoy life while you can – ” I say.

“– because life’s so short,” he agrees. “You don’t know that yet, but – ”

“Oh, I figure it’ll be too short sometimes …”

“Uh-huh; have a good one!” he says, walking away.

“… and too long other days.” Then back to the office, to stare out the window at this beautiful rain today. Sigh. Well, down to work.

… but … still working out the details …

(Yes, Annette; I would like to talk this weekend.)

Matthew 5:4
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Revelation 21:3
I heard a loud voice shout from the throne:
God’s home is now with his people. He will live with them, and they will be his own. Yes, God will make his home among his people. He will wipe all tears from their eyes, and there will be no more death, suffering, crying, or pain. These things of the past are gone forever.

Then the one sitting on the throne said:
I am making everything new. Write down what I have said. My words are true and can be trusted.

Can anyone really comfort me? If I have to say, “Yeah, I’m … okay,” one more time. I mean, what am I supposed to say? I feel like hell, but thanks for asking. I just lost my baby, how do you think I am? The baby I was just getting used to the thought of having. The baby I thanked God for. The baby I wanted. I don’t know how to comfort Jared with his pain – or even acknowledge the pain of my or Jared’s parents, which I’m sure they’re feeling as well – because I don’t know where to start with mine. I don’t know what to do. In some ways I don’t want to feel better yet.

I’m scheduled for a D&C (d-something-with-lots-of-syllables, c-something-with-lots-of-syllables, where they open your cervix and – literally – scrape out the inside of your uterus, like a menstrual period á la Jack the Ripper). Tomorrow. At eleven. I asked yesterday, when the nurse called to tell me about the test results, if it would hurt. Her response was “It’s a surgery.” I guess that’s a yes.

I think a lot of the people around me have an idea that when people “hurt too much” it’s bad for their faith. So they try to make those who mourn … feel better. Be encouraging, like. Rather than just “mourn[ing] with those who mourn” without trying to fix anything (Romans 12:15). I would like to be mourned with, not encouraged, right now. (But how do you mourn?)

So I was listening to the radio on my way to work on Friday. I know, I know; I should know better. It only puts me in a bad mood. But anyway, BobFM’s dumbass morning DJ #1 was being ripped to shreds by dumbass DJs #2 & 3, as well as various callers, because – wait for it – he took his daughter out of school for an afternoon to buy her a bicycle and spend some time with her.

“We don’t always get to do what we want,” a caller said. “There are things we have to do every day. We have to go to school every day; we have to go to work every day. And you’re telling her she doesn’t have to.” “The next thing you know,” said dumbass DJ #2, “she’ll be in middle school, shootin’ heroin and getting tattoos.”

So parents justify their decision to foist their children off to the seven-hour-per-day governmental babysitting and indoctrination service that is the public school system by telling themselves, repeatedly and with loud voices, that the schools have more of a right to their children’s time than they do. That, essentially, parents spending time – during the school day – with their children is actually doing them a disservice. As Austen says, how quick come the reasons for approving what we like.

In high school, I was captain of the academic team, I took all the advanced math courses that were offered, made straight As, attended college concurrently to get a head start, and was generally unslackerish. I graduated valedictorian , after I broke the school’s ACT score record when I was a junior. I went on to graduate from university magna cum laude. I’m not saying that school isn’t important.

Oh, wait. Yes I am. Drat. I’m miserable anyway. Oh, well.