Rattling Around
I offer deepest apologies, everyone, for the prolonged absence. After dropping the wife and daughter off in New York last week, I've been banging around the house, cleaning, packing books, and getting a lot of things done. For example, I just finished compiling my brother-in-law's Christmas present, which I promptly sent off to him.
By the way, February is the new December.
One thing I obviously did not do was work on the blog. I don't really like to talk about the day-to-day events of my life, largely because they're either mundane or because they involve other people whose privacy I'd rather protect. Instead, I try to use this space to work out some of the ideas that roll around in my head; in the process, I've refined my righteous anger, exorcised a few little demons, and discovered that the things that wither my soul are surprisingly universal.
Over the last week, the thoughts in my head have been pretty boring, to be honest. They've largely consisted of missing my family, being irritated at the state of my home, worrying over my wife's quest for a job, and (surprisingly) rediscovering a few of the joys of living alone. My biggest thoughts, or emotions, have revolved around my family. A couple of days ago, I was worshipping at the altar of Wal-Mart when I heard a baby cry. It was the kind of lusty, soul-felt, life-is-brutally-unfair wail that my daughter specializes in on those occasions when we don't let her do what she wants.
If I was a woman, my breasts would have started leaking. As it was, I was filled with a palpable, physical desire to seek out the kid, lift her on my shoulders, and give her a horsey ride. Hell, it usually works with George.
I was amazed that the sound of wailing, the most irritating sound in my daughter's repertoire, should be the one that makes me feel so achingly lonely.
Another thing rolling around in my head was the recent death of a little girl, Nyia Page, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. If you want to find out the whole story, you can Google her, but I don't want to recount the events surrounding her death. Long story short, she died of hypothermia, and her father was responsible. Apparently, Nyia kept waking him up, and he lost his temper.
I think the most upsetting thing for me was that I could relate to this story. When George was a little younger, and I was surviving on less sleep than the average North Korean political prisoner, there were a few times when my frustration, her tears, and various other pressures started to get to me. On a couple of occasions, I had to separate myself from my daughter, take some deep breaths, hum a few bars of "Let It Be," and generally give myself a little time out. As any parent can attest, no matter how sweet-tempered and delightful a child may be, there are times when our little bundles of joy become nerve-jangling hand grenades of misery and irritation. I think one key to being a good parent, or at least a responsible one, lies in knowing when to step back from the situation, not to mention the child.
So, even thought I don't hit my child, I can understand the loss of one's temper, and I can understand an accident. And I think that's what scares me the most about Nyia Page and her daddy, William. The other thing that terrifies me, though, is that after William Page lashed out at her daughter, he left her outside to die in the cold. Missing my daughter so much, I can't imagine the soulless cruelty that it would take to do that to a little girl.
I don't know what upsets me more: the part that I can understand, or the part that I can't.
By the way, February is the new December.
One thing I obviously did not do was work on the blog. I don't really like to talk about the day-to-day events of my life, largely because they're either mundane or because they involve other people whose privacy I'd rather protect. Instead, I try to use this space to work out some of the ideas that roll around in my head; in the process, I've refined my righteous anger, exorcised a few little demons, and discovered that the things that wither my soul are surprisingly universal.
Over the last week, the thoughts in my head have been pretty boring, to be honest. They've largely consisted of missing my family, being irritated at the state of my home, worrying over my wife's quest for a job, and (surprisingly) rediscovering a few of the joys of living alone. My biggest thoughts, or emotions, have revolved around my family. A couple of days ago, I was worshipping at the altar of Wal-Mart when I heard a baby cry. It was the kind of lusty, soul-felt, life-is-brutally-unfair wail that my daughter specializes in on those occasions when we don't let her do what she wants.
If I was a woman, my breasts would have started leaking. As it was, I was filled with a palpable, physical desire to seek out the kid, lift her on my shoulders, and give her a horsey ride. Hell, it usually works with George.
I was amazed that the sound of wailing, the most irritating sound in my daughter's repertoire, should be the one that makes me feel so achingly lonely.
Another thing rolling around in my head was the recent death of a little girl, Nyia Page, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. If you want to find out the whole story, you can Google her, but I don't want to recount the events surrounding her death. Long story short, she died of hypothermia, and her father was responsible. Apparently, Nyia kept waking him up, and he lost his temper.
I think the most upsetting thing for me was that I could relate to this story. When George was a little younger, and I was surviving on less sleep than the average North Korean political prisoner, there were a few times when my frustration, her tears, and various other pressures started to get to me. On a couple of occasions, I had to separate myself from my daughter, take some deep breaths, hum a few bars of "Let It Be," and generally give myself a little time out. As any parent can attest, no matter how sweet-tempered and delightful a child may be, there are times when our little bundles of joy become nerve-jangling hand grenades of misery and irritation. I think one key to being a good parent, or at least a responsible one, lies in knowing when to step back from the situation, not to mention the child.
So, even thought I don't hit my child, I can understand the loss of one's temper, and I can understand an accident. And I think that's what scares me the most about Nyia Page and her daddy, William. The other thing that terrifies me, though, is that after William Page lashed out at her daughter, he left her outside to die in the cold. Missing my daughter so much, I can't imagine the soulless cruelty that it would take to do that to a little girl.
I don't know what upsets me more: the part that I can understand, or the part that I can't.
Labels: living alone, New York City, Wal-Mart
posted by Crankster at
7:52 AM
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