Thursday, February 25, 2010

Ghost Busted

Turns out it was kind of mistake to let Coyote watch Ghost Busters.  Its said PG.  And I honestly didn't remember it very well.  Now he can't be by himself on any floor of the house alone.  I want to do laundry ("want" may be over stating that!) then he's got to come down to the basement with me!  He needs to put on unders... I've got to go up to his room with him.  Argh.  And then he came up with his own solution!  Casper the Friendly Ghost.  It's helped....some what.  But god forbid, you've got to haul in another arm load of firewood and abandon him in the entire house, alone!  God, (Coyote, our devout theist, has actually forbidden the casual use of that word in his presence!) the tricks our imaginations can play.

Since I'm getting all into this domestic work by choice, the creative and fun stuff... the kids, among other humans with opinions, have decided that I should have more kids.  Yeah... well a funny thing happened a few years ago.  I was still considering a third.  Huck wasn't.  So the question was actually dead, but I wondered if I had enough oomph, if I could take him on.  And then Coyote started to crawl in the usual manner of small children which is every where at once.  And I realized that I could either have a career (my aforementioned Legal Thriller) or a third kid.  But I didn't have energy for both.  I thought I was still considering my options, when my subconscious logged on to Craig's list and sold ALL THE BABY GEAR.  I like to say that I've gotten out of parenting what I wanted, and that's enough.  Now that I'm actually liking my job as Domestic Goddess Extraordinaire, the issue re-arrises.  And for some reason, every time it does, my subconscious trots out the images of poopy diapers, 24 hour tit service, crying for no reason, sleepless nights, potty training, ACK!!

But the two I've got are all for new siblings.  And to make their point, they have collected all the baby dolls from every corner of the house.  They've wrapped them in swaddling clothes.  They coo at them.  And then they get me to hold them and look at me with pleading eyes, "Don't you want a real one, mom?"  Ummm, considering that one of them grew up and just demanded that I hold a doll while I was trying to make a dinner that the other one will summarily reject, in all cases, with all possibly ingredients.  No.

They've got a Shirley.  Let's repeat that, shall we?  Blue named a baby doll SHIRLEY.  She's also go a Rosie and a Lily, inadvertently named after good old Alaska friends.  And Coyote has a September.  That's a little bald baby in a navy onsie.  September, unfortunately, also doubles as a bat... a baseball bat.  Coyote takes little toys, tosses them up in the air and whaps them to the other side of the basement with September.  They assure me that it's just a doll and he would never do that to a real baby, honest.

I've been reading another Martha Beck book (I would love everything she ever wrote, even if it was just a 2nd grade spelling test and she only scored 50%).  And she suggested that we each can look into our future somewhat.

I think I've seen myself in the future a few times before.  But I look so different, it's hard to believe it's me.  I've got really short totally gray hair and I'm dressed in extremely expensive business clothes.  I have a hard time seeing how I could or why I would want to move from my bra-less, shit-boot life to that. 

So... I did the suggested exercise.  I relaxed deeply and imagined 10 years into the future and what I saw horrified me.  I was nearly 45. 44, I kept reminding myself.  I hunched and slumped on our fancy couch.  I'd lost about 8 inches in height.  My hair was all white (that's the common thread) and in a bun.  I was totally crippled with a walker on hand.  My feet were relaxing on a hassock.  As was a large book that I'd written, about what, it wasn't clear.  A car pulled into the drive way.  My kids are home!  There were only two, Blue at 18 and Coyote at 15.  They walk in, or rather crawl in.  Because they are now 15 feet tall.  "We're home"  Announces Blue.  She tries to stand in the dining room, but can't entirely fit.  "Hi mom" Coyote's deep voice shakes the lamps.  And I said, "I'm pretty sure I took a wrong turn somewhere in this exercise."

In case you were wondering, I did see a therapist for a while, after two car accidents (they weren't my fault!  I wasn't even distracting the driver in one of them!).  It involved deep relaxation and simultaneous visualisation of frightening traffic events.  After one particularly hilarious mad-cap freeway adventure during my anti-car-phobia visualization the therapist stopped the process, unrelaxed me and said, "I think I see the problem here.  You officially have an over-active imagination."  And he prescribed lots of creative and imaginative outlets.  And that's why I'm telling you all this on my blog. (You don't think there's anyone else reading it, do you. Well, you haven't seen my yahoo in box, have you.)

I've seen the future, people.  And it is yet another unwitting victim of my imagination gone awry.  Is that bad?


  1. UPDATE!
    I tried the visualization again. I was on a foggy beach in Southern California, outside an amusement park. I was in a wrestling arena. I was wearing a red spandex jump suit. I had huge muscles and gray hair (still!). My arms were very long, dragging on the mat. I started pounding my chest.

    I am going to stop trying to visualize my future now.

  2. I loved this post Sarajoy! For the last five years now, River and Rosemary have been telling me, "mom, we want you to have another baby!" When I tell them no, River says, "Fine! Then I'm going to have ten and adopt some more when I grow up." Oh boy. I'm impressed by the overactive imagination too. I'm liking your blog as a creative outlet! :)



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