Broccoli or kids... no thanks, I'm trying to cut back.
Shame, frustration, rage, resentment... they all build and simmer in a vile stew of soul-poisoning ROT.I have a shameful secret. A secret I dare not share with the man I love. A secret I can't discuss in polite society with NORMAL people. With NICE people. I don't like children. Some folks don't like broccoli; I don't like children. And yet, it's okay to dislike broccoli, but if you admit you dislike children, you're seen as some kind of twisted psycho... the kind of person who pulls the wings off flies when they think nobody is watching.
Yeah, well... I do NOT pull the wings off flies--never have. So what's wrong? What component is missing in me... or so badly warped that it might as well be missing? How can I MAKE myself be "good with children?" How can I MAKE myself be what I'm not? Don't mistake this for a lack of love. I LOVE the children dearly. I even LIKE them, far beyond the extent to which I've ever liked any children but my own. But I'm not "good" with them. I'm not a patient person. I'm not a nurturing person. I'm not even very cuddly. I crave solitude and peace even more than I crave adult friendships (which I miss fiercely). And... I crave the passion and all-encompassing feeling of love that I had... BC. Before children.
My heart and my mind ache with this burden... with this shameful secret I cannot share. There is no one to whom I can talk. No one with whom I can unburden myself. And my heart grows weary from the solitude and the shame... and the poisoning continues ... steadily... inescapably.
She asks me if she can come in and watch whatever I have on the office TV. Against my better judgment, I agree, with the stipulation that she be quiet. (I'm trying desperately to locate a particular childrens' book on the internet, and not having much luck.) Into the room she comes... and the yapping begins. Non-stop yapping. Running commentary... verbal diarreah, an endless barrage of free-association made audible and inflicted on my ears and mind. My concentration is shot.
This is what happened next...
I turn to her, trying desperately to hold my temper and frustration in check, and say, "Sherry? Honey, could you please be quiet? I'm trying to do something, here." "Okay," she tells me brightly. Then the silence hangs between us, like a brittle glass thread... and SNAP! The silence is broken and the yapping resumes... without end... without thought... without even, seemingly, her BREATHING. The fragile silence lasted less than two minutes.
I snap my head 'round, teeth clenched, and not wanting to frighten or make her cry, squeeze out the words, "Sherry honey, can you PLEASE be quiet?" She stands, looks at me with sad blue eyes. I have failed her. And she begins to shuffle out of the room. "Sherry," I say to her, "Why do you feel you have to leave?" And the answer comes from her bowed head, "I don't think I CAN be quiet."
"Sherry, sit down in the chair, honey, and look at me." She obeys.
"What color are your eyes?" "Blue."
"Can you change that?" "No," head shaking.
"What color is the sky tonight?" "Black."
"Can you change THAT?" Head shaking again, "No."
"Exactly, honey, you can't change those things because you can't control them. They're outside your and my areas of control. But your MOUTH you do control. 'Not being able to be quiet' isn't a reasonable thing, Sherry. It's like saying you can't control yourself, and I know better than that because you're such a big girl and becoming such a young lady. You CAN control your own self, can't you, honey?" Nodding, "Yes." "Good, then let's try it again."
And this time the silence isn't so brittle... this time the silence is her choice and it lasts for a full five minutes before I tell her how wonderfully she's doing. And this time we smile at each other because we know we've MADE this happen. I'm redeemed... however poorly and however briefly.
This is what didn't happen...
My head snaps 'round, eyes blazing, and she stops midsentence, startled by my obvious anger. "SHUT UP!" I scream, "Can't you?! Can't you just SHUT THE FUCK UP? It's EASY! Close your LIPS and don't open them! It's THAT GODDAMN SIMPLE!" Tears stream down her face and her small shoulders begin to shake with suppressed sobs. She hurries out of the room... not chastised, but verbally beaten. This happens in my mind and it feels real. I have failed yet again.
Yeah, well... I do NOT pull the wings off flies--never have. So what's wrong? What component is missing in me... or so badly warped that it might as well be missing? How can I MAKE myself be "good with children?" How can I MAKE myself be what I'm not? Don't mistake this for a lack of love. I LOVE the children dearly. I even LIKE them, far beyond the extent to which I've ever liked any children but my own. But I'm not "good" with them. I'm not a patient person. I'm not a nurturing person. I'm not even very cuddly. I crave solitude and peace even more than I crave adult friendships (which I miss fiercely). And... I crave the passion and all-encompassing feeling of love that I had... BC. Before children.
My heart and my mind ache with this burden... with this shameful secret I cannot share. There is no one to whom I can talk. No one with whom I can unburden myself. And my heart grows weary from the solitude and the shame... and the poisoning continues ... steadily... inescapably.
She asks me if she can come in and watch whatever I have on the office TV. Against my better judgment, I agree, with the stipulation that she be quiet. (I'm trying desperately to locate a particular childrens' book on the internet, and not having much luck.) Into the room she comes... and the yapping begins. Non-stop yapping. Running commentary... verbal diarreah, an endless barrage of free-association made audible and inflicted on my ears and mind. My concentration is shot.
This is what happened next...
I turn to her, trying desperately to hold my temper and frustration in check, and say, "Sherry? Honey, could you please be quiet? I'm trying to do something, here." "Okay," she tells me brightly. Then the silence hangs between us, like a brittle glass thread... and SNAP! The silence is broken and the yapping resumes... without end... without thought... without even, seemingly, her BREATHING. The fragile silence lasted less than two minutes.
I snap my head 'round, teeth clenched, and not wanting to frighten or make her cry, squeeze out the words, "Sherry honey, can you PLEASE be quiet?" She stands, looks at me with sad blue eyes. I have failed her. And she begins to shuffle out of the room. "Sherry," I say to her, "Why do you feel you have to leave?" And the answer comes from her bowed head, "I don't think I CAN be quiet."
"Sherry, sit down in the chair, honey, and look at me." She obeys.
"What color are your eyes?" "Blue."
"Can you change that?" "No," head shaking.
"What color is the sky tonight?" "Black."
"Can you change THAT?" Head shaking again, "No."
"Exactly, honey, you can't change those things because you can't control them. They're outside your and my areas of control. But your MOUTH you do control. 'Not being able to be quiet' isn't a reasonable thing, Sherry. It's like saying you can't control yourself, and I know better than that because you're such a big girl and becoming such a young lady. You CAN control your own self, can't you, honey?" Nodding, "Yes." "Good, then let's try it again."
And this time the silence isn't so brittle... this time the silence is her choice and it lasts for a full five minutes before I tell her how wonderfully she's doing. And this time we smile at each other because we know we've MADE this happen. I'm redeemed... however poorly and however briefly.
This is what didn't happen...
My head snaps 'round, eyes blazing, and she stops midsentence, startled by my obvious anger. "SHUT UP!" I scream, "Can't you?! Can't you just SHUT THE FUCK UP? It's EASY! Close your LIPS and don't open them! It's THAT GODDAMN SIMPLE!" Tears stream down her face and her small shoulders begin to shake with suppressed sobs. She hurries out of the room... not chastised, but verbally beaten. This happens in my mind and it feels real. I have failed yet again.
posted by Aunty Social at 3:13 PM
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