A Rock and a Sad Place

The other day at the park my nephew had a wreck. He was jumping off the side of the slide (because as any fool knows slides are not just for sliding down) when he was sabotaged by a glitch in coordination.  It wasn’t a bad fall; he only had a couple superficial scrapes to show for it. But there were a ton of people around.

After we clean him up, he decides he wants to do one more slide before we leave, but he chooses the smallest slide and goes down halfheartedly, and it’s all very sad. On the way to our next stop we discuss whether it still hurts, which he tells me it does not, and whether he’s embarrassed which he also denies.

But he’s still tremendously sad.

Eventually it occurs to me that “embarrassed,” may not be a word most people are familiar with when they’re three, so I ask him if he’s sad because all those people saw him fall and he says, “yes.”

Now I’m pissed off at those people for existing, because I feel like Z wouldn’t be upset right now if they didn’t, and what right do they have to be wandering around the park with their eyes anyway? On the other hand this is hideously unreasonable, and I’m really just pissed off at myself for not catching him.

“It’s ok,” I say to him. “None of those people were laughing at you. Everybody falls. I fall, and your mom and dad fall, and Ben falls, and all those people at the park have fallen too, I promise.”

Pointing out the misfortunes of others is perhaps not the most inspiring method of comforting a child, but it’s what came to mind. And still, he was bummed.

We get to the arts festival, but only kind of, because we have to park far away. We start walking, well I start walking, and I’m carrying a sad three year old, a heavy, sad three year old, and I think the sadness is making him heavier than usual. When we finally get there he doesn’t want to go in. He says he wants to sit. So we sit. On the curb outside the arts festival.

He says, “Don’t look at me, please,” and I oblige.

 He picks up a rock. I ask him about the colors in his rock. We discuss that for awhile.

So there we are, sitting on the curb, not looking at each other, discussing rocks instead of feelings. It’s like I’m participating in some kind of weird male bonding moment. I didn’t know three year olds could have such man moments.

I texted his mom for backup. She suggested an uplifting lesson on what the word “embarrassed,” means. That sounded promising, he likes to learn new words. Like “evolution.” But embarrassed is not a fun word to learn when you are.

He would seem better for a while then get sad again. That happens to me too, but I get to drink. And if he was twelve I would have offered him one.  

It turned out that his arm is sprained. When I found that out, I had a guilt headache for two days. But I’m better now, and more importantly, so is he. Feel free to call me with babysitting requests.

Of Mice, Not Men

So I didn’t make big promises in my first post right? No great expectations going on out there that I should be aware of? Then let’s get started. The blog is orange now, which I kind of like, although I’m worried that it’s too bright. On to something else, because how neurotic can one person be? Although obviously, since this is written, I’ve had a chance to edit it and whatever neurosis are still on the page are intended to be. Or, I just didn’t notice them. But clearly I’ve noticed them; I mentioned them. Unless when I mentioned them I was thinking of one thing while the things that are apparent to others are entirely different issues of which I’m not even aware. I’ll lose a little sleep over that.

No more talk about the blog itself. Ok, limited talk about the blog itself. It’s new and I’m obsessed with it. Sorry. In six months I’ll probably be like, “Ugh. Fucking Blog. LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Since you’re still here, I’ll tell you about the mice. It’s not much as rewards go.

Once when I was little, we had mice. Not pet mice, mice in the house. Wild mice that sped across the floor, over toes, and under furniture with an abandon undeterred by the most hysterical shrieks, or any amount of scrambling for safety onto the aforementioned furniture by the humans of the house, namely my mother and I. I think it was the rapid and unpredictable movement that was so alarming; theirs, not ours.

After a while, the mice acquired names. All of course, cute mousy little names. The names were given by my mother, who could actually tell them apart. A mouse would go scurrying across the floor while my mother and I cowered on the couch with my dog Star, who was also terrified by the tiny invaders, and my mother would identify Mickey, or Minnie, or Mighty. I believe Mighty had the upturned nose.

I feel like there were at least two or three more, but my memory isn’t the best. That could be thanks to a few substances or it could be I’ve blanked the names out for emotional reasons. Maybe the ones I can’t remember were my favorites.

It was decided, at some level beyond my clearance, that living with a houseful of wild mice was not the thing. It wasn’t long before the bodies started turning up, and one by one Mighty, Minnie, Mickey, and the others were, by the shape of a nose or the quirk of a tail, gaily identified and disposed of.

And was strewing all that poison around when a dog and a child were in residence the best idea? Evidence of a simpler time, I guess. Before the days of pesky public service safety announcements, when one could still plausibly say, “Oh my god. I had no idea she would eat that. Who ever heard of a four year old putting something so inappropriate in her mouth?”

Somehow, Star and I made it through unscathed, physically at least, and to Mickey and company, I feel safe in saying that I’ll never forget you. I know. I’ve tried.