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Nachos and Ventriloquism
May. 1st, 2006 09:17 amRobin and I have so many fights, they all start to blur together.
Somewhere, my mother is laughing.
I don't remember ever fighting this much with Max. But then, Max was a strategic thinker from the moment he could talk. I suppose he'd figured out ways to "handle" me so subtle and effective I never even knew I was being "handled."
Poor Robin lacks all guile. It's just ego versus ego in the big mud pit of human ambition.
Friday morning, we scream at each other over a sweatshirt he wants to wear to school. It's his favorite sweatshirt. Unfortunately, it's covered with food stains since Robin is still quite infantile in matters of personal hygiene.
"You are not wearing that to school," I say. Perhaps I am terse. I have been up since 4:30 plotting Circus Chimera's triumphant return to the Bay Area. The Little Store may be doing well, but doing "well" means it pays its own bills – not mine.
"I want to wear it!" says Robin. His eyes blaze.
"Absolutely not," I say. I taunt him by holding the garment in contention just over his head. Robin, at eleven and a half, shows no sign of the tall gene that characterizes my side of the family. He's still only 5'1" and that is an issue for him.
Robin reaches up and grabs the sweatshirt from my hand.
I snatch it back.
More glaring.
Robin starts punching the bed.
Several times over the course of thirteen years I've seen Ben start punching things when he's really, really mad – walls mostly, and no, he never punched a hole through them. It always scares me although I understand from reading Chuck Palahniuk that this is not an uncommon male behavior. Ben is not high on my list of potential Robin role models just at present so Robin's behavior is really pissing me off. I grab him and swat his behind several times – laughable really: I've never been able to physically discipline either of my sons even when they were small. I disapprove of spanking so thoroughly that in even in those moments when it seemed like the only recourse, all I can bring myself to do is pat them weakly on the butt.
I go to his dresser and pull out a clean sweatshirt. About a year ago, I reorganized his dresser and put labels on all the drawers, painstakingly Photoshopped images of his favorite anime characters in "school uniforms," "pajamas", "sweaters and sweatshirts." It always pissed me off that Ben who did most of the laundry always shoved the clothes into the dresser without paying attention to the labels. How was Robin supposed to know where anything was? How was he supposed to learn how to choose his own clothes when he didn't know where anything was?
The first thing I did after Ben left was reorganize Robin's dresser.
We are silent on the drive to school. The dogs are loaded into the back – my life is a conveyor belt: on the way back I'll swing by the beach for the 30-minute obligatory free style. Robin pretends to sleep, I pretend to listen to the news. Gasoline is now over three dollars a gallon. KGO is interviewing people on the street. Three bucks a gallon is still way cheaper than gas is anywhere else in the world, of course, so while the part of me that rejoices in being part of the American elite is pissed, the part of me that is a citizen of humanity cluck-clucks at the outrage of the ugly American on the street. This is so diverting that I actually forget that Robin and I are feuding.
"Look, Robin, let's talk about what happened," I say as he is preparing to climb out of the car.
"What's there to talk about?" he sneers.
"Was I right or was I wrong about the sweatshirt?"
"You were right," he mumbles.
"But I was wrong to yell," I say. The best despots are always magnanimous in victory. "We have to figure out a way to get along with each other, Robin, without screaming. Otherwise, this is not going to work. I have an idea. Let's pick a word. And whenever either of us says that word, no matter how mad we are, we have to stop being mad and give each other a hug."
"Nacho," he mumbles.
"What?"
"Nacho. The word is nacho."
The tide is high at the beach, the sky overcast and grey. Milo actually lifts his leg to pee – he's been doing that more and more lately. Milo was an ASPCA rescue and one of the stipulations of his adoption was that we get him neutered at 4 months. At 4 months, Milo hadn't even gone through puberty yet and I begged the ASPCA to let us wait a couple of months for the operation but no, they were Nazis. Consequently, poor Milo is pretty much a eunuch. If only he were human he'd be the Vienna Boys Choir's lead soprano.
Milo finds a stick. He doesn't actually like to chase sticks, he likes to carry them in his mouth and taunt Xena and all the other dogs with them: look what I have! You don't have it.
Presently we meet up with another early morning stroller and her dog. Milo prances up to her, stick in mouth, and waits expectantly.
"Put it down and I'll throw it for you," says the woman.
Milo wags his tale.
"Down," says the woman in a deep voice.
Milo lets the stick fall.
"Amazing," I say.
"Oh, the alpha female voice never works," says the woman. "You have to use the alpha male voice. With dogs as with so much else in life." She laughs. "And that's why smart women are all ventriloquists."
Somewhere, my mother is laughing.
I don't remember ever fighting this much with Max. But then, Max was a strategic thinker from the moment he could talk. I suppose he'd figured out ways to "handle" me so subtle and effective I never even knew I was being "handled."
Poor Robin lacks all guile. It's just ego versus ego in the big mud pit of human ambition.
Friday morning, we scream at each other over a sweatshirt he wants to wear to school. It's his favorite sweatshirt. Unfortunately, it's covered with food stains since Robin is still quite infantile in matters of personal hygiene.
"You are not wearing that to school," I say. Perhaps I am terse. I have been up since 4:30 plotting Circus Chimera's triumphant return to the Bay Area. The Little Store may be doing well, but doing "well" means it pays its own bills – not mine.
"I want to wear it!" says Robin. His eyes blaze.
"Absolutely not," I say. I taunt him by holding the garment in contention just over his head. Robin, at eleven and a half, shows no sign of the tall gene that characterizes my side of the family. He's still only 5'1" and that is an issue for him.
Robin reaches up and grabs the sweatshirt from my hand.
I snatch it back.
More glaring.
Robin starts punching the bed.
Several times over the course of thirteen years I've seen Ben start punching things when he's really, really mad – walls mostly, and no, he never punched a hole through them. It always scares me although I understand from reading Chuck Palahniuk that this is not an uncommon male behavior. Ben is not high on my list of potential Robin role models just at present so Robin's behavior is really pissing me off. I grab him and swat his behind several times – laughable really: I've never been able to physically discipline either of my sons even when they were small. I disapprove of spanking so thoroughly that in even in those moments when it seemed like the only recourse, all I can bring myself to do is pat them weakly on the butt.
I go to his dresser and pull out a clean sweatshirt. About a year ago, I reorganized his dresser and put labels on all the drawers, painstakingly Photoshopped images of his favorite anime characters in "school uniforms," "pajamas", "sweaters and sweatshirts." It always pissed me off that Ben who did most of the laundry always shoved the clothes into the dresser without paying attention to the labels. How was Robin supposed to know where anything was? How was he supposed to learn how to choose his own clothes when he didn't know where anything was?
The first thing I did after Ben left was reorganize Robin's dresser.
We are silent on the drive to school. The dogs are loaded into the back – my life is a conveyor belt: on the way back I'll swing by the beach for the 30-minute obligatory free style. Robin pretends to sleep, I pretend to listen to the news. Gasoline is now over three dollars a gallon. KGO is interviewing people on the street. Three bucks a gallon is still way cheaper than gas is anywhere else in the world, of course, so while the part of me that rejoices in being part of the American elite is pissed, the part of me that is a citizen of humanity cluck-clucks at the outrage of the ugly American on the street. This is so diverting that I actually forget that Robin and I are feuding.
"Look, Robin, let's talk about what happened," I say as he is preparing to climb out of the car.
"What's there to talk about?" he sneers.
"Was I right or was I wrong about the sweatshirt?"
"You were right," he mumbles.
"But I was wrong to yell," I say. The best despots are always magnanimous in victory. "We have to figure out a way to get along with each other, Robin, without screaming. Otherwise, this is not going to work. I have an idea. Let's pick a word. And whenever either of us says that word, no matter how mad we are, we have to stop being mad and give each other a hug."
"Nacho," he mumbles.
"What?"
"Nacho. The word is nacho."
The tide is high at the beach, the sky overcast and grey. Milo actually lifts his leg to pee – he's been doing that more and more lately. Milo was an ASPCA rescue and one of the stipulations of his adoption was that we get him neutered at 4 months. At 4 months, Milo hadn't even gone through puberty yet and I begged the ASPCA to let us wait a couple of months for the operation but no, they were Nazis. Consequently, poor Milo is pretty much a eunuch. If only he were human he'd be the Vienna Boys Choir's lead soprano.
Milo finds a stick. He doesn't actually like to chase sticks, he likes to carry them in his mouth and taunt Xena and all the other dogs with them: look what I have! You don't have it.
Presently we meet up with another early morning stroller and her dog. Milo prances up to her, stick in mouth, and waits expectantly.
"Put it down and I'll throw it for you," says the woman.
Milo wags his tale.
"Down," says the woman in a deep voice.
Milo lets the stick fall.
"Amazing," I say.
"Oh, the alpha female voice never works," says the woman. "You have to use the alpha male voice. With dogs as with so much else in life." She laughs. "And that's why smart women are all ventriloquists."
