Remembering Sarcasm

I really hate repetition. One of my many and varied challenges as a parent comes when I have to say the same thing three or more times. Deep breathing, internal screaming, wine - I tap several resources throughout the day. Then there's the everyday repetition; "Pick up your underpants, eat your cereal, put on your shoes, how many times have I told you to put on your shoes? Five times?" The kids have a role too; "What underpants; I am eating my cereal; where are my shoes; three times, you've told me three times to put on my shoes, mom, don't exaggerate?

No task with children, even the simplest request, is without repetition.... several times a day. Repeat repeat, repeat again. The script the other day went like this and it actually happened pretty much like this:

SETTING: Harper enjoys new Tinker Toys. Builds windmill, convincing her parent at first glance that she will be a famous architect or structural engineer. Enter younger sister, sleepy, emerging from nap........interested in new toy. All structural elements from new toy already employed in windmill. Tension ensues. Voices are raised.

ACT I
Mother: Harp, you need to take apart the windmill so your sister can play with it too.
Harper: But it's really special. Why can't I keep it the way it is?

Mother (evenly): Because then your sister can't play with it.
Harper: But I really want to.
Mother (still evenly) Sorry, hon. It's not fair to keep all the pieces for your windmill.
Harper: Maybe I can just keep it for a week, then take it apart.
Mother (less evenly): I said no, Harper. Please take it apart now. Thank you.
Harper (pleading): But why does (insert annoying younger sibling here) have to play with it? She has tons of other things to play with.
Mother (unevenly with emphasis): Haaaaarper, take.....the....toy....apart...now... so your sister can play with it too.
Harper (whiny pleading, slightly teary): But mom, can't I just keep it this way for a little while?
Mother (rocky): I've already said no, Harper. How many times do I need to say it?
Harper: But......
Mother (rocky with emphasis): No. And I hate this repetition; I'm really freakin' tired of repeating myself. Take it apart now, in one....two......

She starts taking it apart. But not before I launch into:

ACT II
Mother: Hey, you want a peanut butter sandwich?
Harper (indignantly, still taking apart the windmill): No.
Mother: Are you sure?
Harper: Yes.
Mother: Are you really sure? What about half?
Harper (dismissively): I don't want a peanut butter sandwich.
Mother: Really? What if I cut it into squares, take the crusts off and put extra jelly on?
Harper (pissy): I'm not hungry - I DON'T want a sandwich.
Mother: Really? Are you sure? Because I could just make it and then you could it eat it later. You might be hungry later.
Harper: I won't be hungry later.
Mother: You sure?
Harper (totally annoyed): Yes.
Mother: Want me to stop asking you the same question over and over again?
Harper: Yes.
Mother: Isn't it annoying when you have to repeat yourself over and over again?
Harper (dissolving into laughter): Totally annoying.
Mother (chuckling): Yeah, I'm with ya on that.

Score one for Mom. Wish I could remember sarcasm more often - powerful weapon in my arsenal.

Slumdog Millionaire: Dragons Are Better

In a life long ago, I used to study film. I would tell people, "Yeah, I'm in film school." Then they would say, "Really, effin' cool dude. What kinda films do you make?" "Oh no," I would reply, "I just study them; other people make 'em.........then I just write really obscure things about them." It was always a little tough to defend such a ridiculous course of study.

Point being that I really used to like movies; the movie theatre was like my church, my own special place. I preferred to go alone, unencumbered by chat and trite comments about previews or inevitable post movie wrap-ups. I would watch everything, take it all in and then sit through the credits without worrying about rushing. I would watch silent films for hours without sleeping, quirky avant-garde films that gave me headaches, documentaries - weirder then better, and the indies, loved the good independent films. For five years, I studied film and tried to make a career. Then one day I woke up with a kid and suddenly the only kind of movies I can watch are raw, mindless action flicks and romantic comedies. Well-written, of course, but nonetheless. Anything else just seems like work.

Case in point, I went to see Slumdog Millionaire on the recommendation of...well...everyone. And I walked out with tears streaming down my face and certain that I must be nuts. Everyone was applauding around me, spouting spontaneous praise. My brother and his partner were overwhelmed. Chris loved it. I felt like I'd just been hit over the head with a club and dragged through mind mud. For those who haven't seen it, the movie follows two orphaned brothers in the slums of India as they grow-up among desperate poverty, exploitation and violence. The main character plays "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?," and wins because he's coincidentally learned the answers in episodes throughout his miserable life. For one question, he knows the composer of an obscure Indian folk song, because a child slaver forced all of the children to sing it perfectly before he maimed them for life - blindness and physical disabilities proving more lucrative on the begging circuit. Everything about this movie was powerful and raw and awful and I just couldn't enjoy it at all. It's the kid thing.

Having kids has made me soft and over-sensitive and I'm not saying that it should be otherwise. I'm just curious as to why creating two lives has made me a complete pansy in the entertainment department. And it doesn't just stop at movies; I've read exactly three non-fantasy, non-science fiction books since I had children. And Marley and Me was one of them. The days of literature are long gone, replaced by dozens of fantasy worlds, elves, fairies and a clear, clean distinction between good and evil...the dark and the light. It's so much easier living in fantasy world when child raising is so demanding, so tiring, so everything. It makes sense that I'd want to escape, but it's more than escaping. It's a kind of protective bubble, insular and cushioned. Nothing will happen to my kids in the bubble. At least, that 's my best guess as to why dragons are more palatable to me than actual human suffering, fictional or not.

One day, when they've left the bubble home, I hope I can watch some documentaries again, or read a book without magic, because I think my mind might like that. Until then, if you feel like I do, check out Wanted and The Name of the Wind and come inside the bubble.