The Darnedest Things, Indeed!

Objectively (and abstractedly, I might add), I know that I can’t censor/monitor/manipulate the many and diverse influences in my daughter’s life. Generally, I wouldn’t want to, anyhow (well, most of the time). It’s a notion that comes up and gooses you, the day the F-word, used appropriately and coupled with “idiot” comes out of your three-year-old’s mouth. We recently relocated and a lot has changed in her life. We are at a different daycare in a strange town, with a weird, new group of friends. And I don’t mean for “weird” to hold any sort of negative connotation. I am weird and damn proud of it. Kyra is also a bit of an eccentric, so the people are actually so normal/bland/sane that it’s odd from the other side. That’s all.

Amongst her new group of peers is a child who displays very clear signs of Tourette’s Syndrome and far worse symptoms of parents in deep denial. Were they able to see what was bothering the poor child, he could be in less pain and properly treated, but they refuse, even, to acknowledge it. This boy has rubbed off on my daughter to the point that she sees similar outbursts as funny. She’s always been a young comedienne and I fear that this will (at her tender age) effect her filter for (mostly) “acceptable social behavior”. I do walk a line between really dorky/goofy/slightly vulgar and completely “acceptable social behavior”, because I tend to say what’s on my mind. Mine, however, is not a terribly sick mind. Yes, I like my dirty jokes, and innuendo cracks me up, but it’s pretty innocuous and fairly Jr. High in nature, so I tend to get away with it.

My daughter has taken to imitating the compulsiveness of this boy’s behavior, inadvertently borrowing (if you will) a serious psychological disorder. It concerns me, and I’ll tell you, I don’t scare easily. In fact, ‘Motherless Brooklyn’ is one of my favorite books (I’m not going to give away the allusion, either, so don’t wait for it: just go read the thing). When a child who’s hurting is made to continue suffering because his/her parents don’t want to deal with what they (must) know, it hurts my heart. When my daughter brings home the long-reaching psychological repercussions of that, we’ve got a problem. It feels like Fate, or God, or whatever the Universe needs me to heed, reaching out to me on behalf of that poor little guy. Because, I think, It knows I can do nothing but help him.

And believe me, I will.

I know I’m always ranting about crappy movies, but, seriously???

Who in the hell thought it would be okay to make a movie with this title: ‘Abraham Lincoln; Vampire Killer’? What empty, soulless, money-hungry demon of Hollywood said, “I know, let’s just go ahead and admit to the world that we have no stories left in us.”?

I mean, should I even go on? This is pitiful on so many levels. I do plan to watch the remake of ‘The Three Stooges’, just because I can appreciate the Farrelly Brothers’ sense of respect for the trio. I didn’t watch ‘Footloose’ (which felt like blasphemy). This, however, goes way too far. If they need decent writers, I would be happy to help them out with a screenplay. In fact, I have a project in mind, that might sell without turning a historical figure into Buffy (Kristy Swanson or Sarah Michelle Gellar; take your pick; they both sucked), for God’s sake.

I might as well start at the beginning. I went to see ‘The Dicatator’ tonight (Sacha Baron Cohen is our Peter Sellers; he is the funniest man alive). Mixed in with the regular previews for movies that make a tiny bit of sense, was this visually stunning preview for a movie with Abraham Lincoln. I thought it was going to be about John Wilkes Boothe, or the Civil War, so I thought I might watch it. Then, the title flashed…

I hope they sick him on Twilight, so we can kill two horrible ideas with one top-grossing stone.

Happy Mothers’ Day

I was working on one of my impossible projects and just stopped. I felt compelled to write something for all of the moms out there, widely unappreciated, except for this one day. For all of the women with the strength, compassion, courage, and fortitude to be a mom, here you are…

To all the beautiful women

who’ve sported swollen ankles and bursting bellies,

broken water and bloody mess,

we salute you.

To all the wonderful women

who’ve worn vomit and stood the night watch,

full of 3am poop,

we stand with you.

To all the exceptional women

who’ve fought and loved,

lived and died,

held onto us, only to have to

let go,

Blessed be

Our mothers.

gone fishin…

I keep seeing all the Mothers’ Day commercials for jewelry stores; touching, heart-warming, typical chick stuff; making me  frustrated with the stereotype. I don’t want chocolates, or flowers, or necklaces. I want to spend some time on a lake with my daughter, fishing and goofing off.

Her dad isn’t around to help her make me pancakes on Sunday morning and I wouldn’t change that. But his bed is made and that’s his own business. I don’t expect a boatload of fancy, nor do I particularly care for it. The last time I got to go fishing was almost six years ago. I don’t want to go to brunch, or have a mother-daughter tea party after church. I just want to watch the sun rise, catch some fish, show my daughter how to clean them, and eat our fresh lunch.

Is that so much to ask?