Drew has started implementing safety standards for his own obedience. If he is about to spill his milk, again, on purpose, and he knows it — he can feel the drumbeat of compulsion rushing through his veins — he hands me his glass and says, “Here, Mommy, I gonna spill dis.” Even if it has a lid on.
Maybe he is about to unbuckle his seat belt. Again. After being given the big-bug-eye treatment. “Mommy, hand me dat book!” he cries in desperation. I hand him “The Little Engine That Could” from the floorboard of the car and he places it over the buckle, just so he won’t accidentally look down, catch sight of the gleaming enticement, and disobey himself right into a time-out chair.
Where did he learn this amazing maturity? Such self-awareness? Such obsession-compulsion? From me, of course.
Today through a series of fortunate events, none of which matter to this blog, I came to possess a Snickers bar. It was probably the first Snickers bar I have had on my person since college, or maybe since junior high, when I weighed 88 pounds and ran track in blue Converse sneakers. Over the past ten days my schedule has been altered for various reasons, which has made it hard to get to the gym. The scale is slowly creeping up and this bothers me more than it ever should. But you don’t just cast off a gleaming Snickers. It was a little like having company.
I unwrapped it solemnly, tore off half, and placed the other half on the island in the kitchen where Gordon was washing dishes. “Here,” I said as I left, “Eat this. Just do it.” I walked to the other side of the house, hid underneath a throw blanket, and ate my half in a swoon. I resisted the urge to go back to the kitchen just to see what had become of the rest. Had Gordon eaten it? Was he saving it for later? In his back pocket, perhaps, with the chocolate- smeared wrapper snapping like a surrender flag? Maybe it had fallen beneath the lip of the cabinet and maybe — no, certainly — it would attract ants. Someone should really monitor the situation.
But instead of poking around the kitchen like a Terminix employee, I sat down to write this very blog, the one you are reading right now. And I will continue to type until I feel the seratonin and oxytocin draining from between my ears.
This might take a while…
What would you like to discuss? Politics? Moisturizer?
I’m not sure how this blog is going to end, or that it will end, but I am determined that it will not be capped off with another 150 calories and 5,000 volts of self-loathing.
Isn’t maturity horrible?
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