Sunday Scribblings, “The Monster…”

25 08 2006

But it isn’t Sunday, you say? You are right, I say, and my, my, so astute! I’m posting this now because I just finished writing it, and if I don’t post it NOW then I never will. I tend to chicken out of things that require me to share my feelings. I like to keep things bottled up. I know me, and I know my tricks and all the games I like to play. So I’d better just POST THIS ALREADY and stop being such a wuss!

****

The monster that comes to my mind first is red, furry, and LOVES his crayon, too. That monster is named Elmo, and as much as he loves Dorothy, his crayon, Mr. Noodle, families and babies, my son loves him even more. Probably even more than his mother (though he’d never admit it).

In fact, one of his favorite books is Elmo’s 12 Days of Christmas, and 37 times throughout the day he will drop that book in my lap and slap my leg, Ethan’s cue that it’s time for me to pick him up and hold him close while I sing “…Four calling monsters, three French friends, two yummy cookies, and a red monster up in a tree!” It’s riveting, really. So riveting that I’ve often considered getting in touch with those four calling monsters and having them call up three French hitmen to put me out of my misery. (Which leads me to wonder: Is it possible to take out a hit on oneself? Is it? The things I think about while rearing my child…) But hey, it makes the boy happy and that’s all that matters.

There are good monsters (*cough* Elmo! *cough*). And there are bad monsters.

(Prepare yourself for a drastic change of gears here, this is just where my train of thought took me.)

A bad monster yells. A bad monster uses his fists to show you what he’s feeling. A bad monster lies, has affairs, makes promises he always knew he wouldn’t even try to keep. A bad monster is in your life one second, when its convenient for him, when it’ll benefit him somehow. And then once he’s gotten what he wanted, he’s gone.

A bad monster is responsible for the fact that some of your earliest memories include domestic violence.

A bad monster screws you up, in ways you couldn’t imagine. In ways that won’t show up till years later, when you realize you’ve got problems dealing with life, and you start wondering what’s wrong with you, and when was the last time you laughed, why is it that only you can put the clean towels in the linen closet the right way, because if anyone else does it, well then your entire day is shot?

A bad monster probably grew up around a few bad monsters himself.

Luckily there still exist little boys who have yet to discover that there’s any other kind of monster than the good kind. Is it expecting too much of myself to want to try to keep it that way? Probably. But I’ll sure as hell try my hardest.


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