My dad has had numerous skin cancer and precancerous spots removed from his head. My first cousin (my mother’s brother’s son) died of throat cancer. My maternal grandmother had ten brothers and sisters who lived to adulthood. Any guesses how many died of one form of cancer or another? Those of you who guessed any number lower than ten are leaving us today with a year’s supply of Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco Treat™. All things being considered, I think that makes my chances slightly better than those of the cricket currently running around in the tarantula tank waving a sign that says THE END IS NEAR. So. Me, I’m making an appointment with the dermatologist to have a mole on my back checked out. Feel free to go lay in that coffin shaped box and be microwaved if you’d like.
9 March 2009 at 8:46 am (parenting)
Tags: depression, Gavin, parenting
I’m being pestered by the Self Esteem Monster and his good friends the You Aren’t A Good Enough Parent Monster and the Your Kid Sucks, Too Monster. Gavin is already four years old and he isn’t yet writing his dissertation on genetic mutations in the three toed sloth! He doesn’t have his paperwork in to be Stephen Hawking’s next unpaid intern! He forgets whether ni hao is Spanish and hola is Mandarin or vice versa!
Ok, seriously, he had his birthday party on Saturday and only two kids of the eleven or so we invited came. Is he the stinky kid no one wants to play with? I don’t *think* so. I mean, we bathe him once a month whether he needs it or not. It annoys me that most of the parents couldn’t even be bothered to call and say thanks for the invitation but we have other plans. I keep trying to tell myself that Gav had a great time no matter who was there. If the other parents didn’t want to take advantage of a free admission for their kiddo to the Children’s Museum, that’s their missed opportunity. Fuck ‘em. I still have those monsters hiding behind me waiting to kick me in the butt, though.
He’s four and counts in his own order. He recognizes his name and the letter G, but anything other than that is a wash. I was reading at his age. He’s still wearing pullups at night because he’s such a heavy sleeper he doesn’t even know when he wets them. Granted, I walk and talk in my sleep so I guess I can blame his genetics for that.
Screw all that! He’s polite. When he sees someone walking their dog he runs up *to the owner* and asks, “please may I pet your dog?” before going near the animal. He’s determined to learn to skateboard, and puts on his pads all by himself and brings us his helmet to put on. He sings silly songs to himself. He’s quick to give hugs and kisses and tell people he loves them. He likes all animals, not just your standard dogs and cats. He wants to play with the snake when we get him out, and he likes the tarantulas, too. He says hello to birds and bugs. He’s learned that we don’t squish bugs just because they’ve accidentally walked into our house. We take them back outside so they can go back home to their bug mommies and daddies. He knows not to leave water running because that’s wasting, and he uses cloth napkins because they can be washed and used again.
Piss off, monsters. There are things Gavin is not, but there are many things he is, and it’s all going to be ok.
4 March 2009 at 11:09 am (depression)
Tags: depression, mood, music, Pink Floyd
SO YOU thought you might like to go to the show
Music does funny things to the brain. I’m not going to regurgitate this study or that study saying how it affects mood (although there was a funny one with mice listening to Anthrax who all killed each other). My own personal experience means more to me than someone else’s study. My own personal experience makes my heart start pounding hearing those words.
Pink isn’t well, he stayed back at the hotel,
The Wall. My sophomore year of high school I bounced back and forth between mania and depression with dizzying speed. Total obsession with someone kept me oblivious to how I was hurting myself, how I was hurting people who loved me, how I, myself, was hurting. I listened to this music over and over, oddly, because someone else liked it rather than noting the parallels with my own life. It seems I never listened to the words as a whole concept album. Almost 20 years later, the depression and suicidal tendencies of the main character are obvious. At the time I didn’t think about it, but I certainly understood when a friend killed himself a couple years later. Maybe on some level I was listening.
Are there any queers in the theatre tonight?
Get ‘em up against the wall.
And that one in the spotlight, he don’t look right to me.
Get him up against the wall.
I don’t like to hear it today. Any song from that album on the radio gets an immediate jab at any other preset button to turn it off turn it off turn it off QUICK. I have my own wall trying to keep the depression the paranoia the panic away, and that music seems to hold the key to breaking down the wall. I don’t want to remember that time. I don’t want to go back there.
