There comes a point almost every evening when the personalities collide and someone will make an appeal to everyone’s favorite, the step-monster. The response that indicates that there will not be discipline, is, “ Don’t make me stop this couch.” Followed by giggling fits, the response could be more of the bad behavior or a “hands up, you caught me” gesture. I will admit that more often than not, it is because I am doing something that I ought not. It could be a nostril petting, poking an ear, pulling a toe hair. Really the options for my misbehavior are endless, even if they are all in good fun. Often, to my surprise, my offspring try these things out on each other, or worse, on me. This generally sets the larger of the dogs off, causing the the beginnings of the Asshole Olympics, where there are laps around the first floor of the house and often hurdles over the ottoman, cats, dog beds, or other obstacles to the galloping run. More giggling makes the dog more nervous, resulting in more racing around. This often startles a cat or the other dog and makes folks laugh uncontrollably until they turn red, fart, wheeze, or some combination of the three. The uncontrollable laughter and wheezing also make the big dog nervous, so more laps. Farting brings about curiosity, and large dog in the wheezing person's lap with an admonishment of, “Don’t step on my cretch.” This sets off other laughing, dog sprints, cats getting stepped on, and more exclamations. Hopefully, you can see where this is headed, but if you can’t, it is more hysteria from the house’s inhabitants. On slow nights, when the children are working or spending an evening at their father’s, there are other hijinks, but rarely is there a need to stop the couch.
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I was the youngest of my parents children, and separated by divorce, remarriage, miles and situation. As a result, I was raised as an only child. I got the best and worst of both worlds. It was always my fault, no matter what as I couldn't blame a sibling. I always had my own room. Car rides were quiet.
It has come to my attention recently that we are a funny people. Specifically when my middle son came home after a month in his new life and announced that we are all a good time. He may have meant that we are nuts or that we put on a good show. This is not the place to quibble about such matters. I have often been made the center of attention and had command performances. As a four year old, I was propped up on the corner of the secretary's desk and asked for my life story at my father's work Christmas party. I was not daunted by this, but instead began, " My mother is a fruitcake and you know my dad," all to a roar of laughter. My material has changed, but my timing hasn't. I can be called upon for a story on a moment's notice. I learned early on that it was better to laugh than to cry, as if these were the only acceptable responses to what happens in life. Recently, I have been working on meditating and using radical acceptance ( cue eye roll and heavy sigh). Meditation is great. It does help even in the most unlikely situations. I can feel better just knowing that I have done less harm than I might have by reacting without mindfulness. Radical acceptance, however, is bullshit. Anyone who has lived through things that must be radically accepted knows how much we have already accepted, radically or otherwise. There is a distinct need to stop accepting poor treatment, bad behavior, violence and harm. The idea that I am responsible for the behavior of others was literally beaten into me by my father, reinforced by my grandparents, and practiced by my siblings. I reject that out of hand. I am responsible for my behavior and how the behavior of others affects me. I am in control of whether folks can harm me. I alone give permission for that bad behavior, violence and harm. If you no longer have much connection to me, it is because I have deemed that your presence is no present. Since we do not live in a soundproof booth ( see previous installment), it is sometimes necessary to have code words with which to refer to folks. Some are kind, some are not.
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AuthorI make stuff. Sometimes the stuff is pretty, sometimes not. My wife, 2 dogs, 3 kids and 3 cats keep me busy and on my toes. Archives
January 2022
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