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Tidal Waves and Bad Mommy
Dec. 27th, 2004 12:59 pmBuckets of rain/intermittent rainbows here on the California's Quaint and Scenic Central Coast but whenever I close my eyes I see blue skies and the vast receding plain of the Indian Ocean. That's the image that stays with me: not the violence of the water but the eerie calm that preceded it.
Twenty thousand dead… a number that is probably closer to thirty-five thousand since you figure the various southeast Asian Offices of the Interior involved were not showcasing the latest in up-to-the-minute census technology. But the real tragedy is the infrastructure. I suppose India and Thailand, which have economic engines in place, recover within six months to two years. But what happens to all those people in Sri Lanka, Indonesia and Myanmar? For a month or so, donations will pour in, food, medicine, water purification tablets, canvas tents (although looking at the photos you figure what they really need is bulldozers, and how do you airlift those?) Then it will stop. And then comes the typhoid and cholera epidemics. Just how are these people going to feed themselves? With the roads and aqueducts all gone and their fishing boats destroyed? The mind boggles. I can't afford it but I really want to make a donation. But to whom? I hate the Red Cross. Oxfam? WHO?
In other news, both kids gone – Robin back east with Nancy, Max to Tustin. Almost as good as taking a vacation. I love my children but they are excessively time-consuming and I am a bad enough mother to prefer thinking my own thoughts to obsessing about them. Bad fight with Max the night before he left – he's really been malingering on the second round of Deep Springs essays. It must be Luv – he spent Tuesday & Wednesday in Coralitis with Maya, then Thursday I took the them all to Fitzgerald. So on Friday when he's supposed to be buckling down, he feels the need to call her three times and then to write her a long love letter. "And which of the cardinal virtues does Maya most enjoy?" I ask. "And what does she think of blacksmithing?"
"I'm writing the damn essays, Mom. Okay? I'm writing them. Get off my back. It's my process."
I sense the platitude of the wise high school college counselor. True enough, it's his process but the kid – immensely talented in most things – is not a good writer, hence the essay process requires at least three rewrites. He's already got a full ride to Pitt which is a great school, so maybe I should back off, let him deal with getting rejected from Deep Springs –
"And anyway Annie said she'd help me with the essays."
Annie! And instantly all the recent hurt feelings and the big red flashing Failure sign come back into play and I hiss, "Fine. Then go to Annie and leave me out of it. I'm through with helping you." And I slam the bedroom door and crawl into bed with the always upbeat Ian Rankin. Rebus has gone back to drinking. There are a lot of child molesters in Edinburgh. It wouldn't be such a bad thing to live the rest of my life never speaking to Max again, would it? He's the Golden Boy, everybody loves him. It's not like he'd miss me. I could become an alcoholic and die in some transient hotel on Geary Boulevard, assuming there still are transient hotels on Geary Boulevard. He could marry Maya, invest wisely in Singapore biotechs, grow rich and prosperous. A win-win situation all around.
An hour later we're talking again and before he leaves, he hammers out a rough draft of one of the essays.
Motherhood: too much work.
Twenty thousand dead… a number that is probably closer to thirty-five thousand since you figure the various southeast Asian Offices of the Interior involved were not showcasing the latest in up-to-the-minute census technology. But the real tragedy is the infrastructure. I suppose India and Thailand, which have economic engines in place, recover within six months to two years. But what happens to all those people in Sri Lanka, Indonesia and Myanmar? For a month or so, donations will pour in, food, medicine, water purification tablets, canvas tents (although looking at the photos you figure what they really need is bulldozers, and how do you airlift those?) Then it will stop. And then comes the typhoid and cholera epidemics. Just how are these people going to feed themselves? With the roads and aqueducts all gone and their fishing boats destroyed? The mind boggles. I can't afford it but I really want to make a donation. But to whom? I hate the Red Cross. Oxfam? WHO?
In other news, both kids gone – Robin back east with Nancy, Max to Tustin. Almost as good as taking a vacation. I love my children but they are excessively time-consuming and I am a bad enough mother to prefer thinking my own thoughts to obsessing about them. Bad fight with Max the night before he left – he's really been malingering on the second round of Deep Springs essays. It must be Luv – he spent Tuesday & Wednesday in Coralitis with Maya, then Thursday I took the them all to Fitzgerald. So on Friday when he's supposed to be buckling down, he feels the need to call her three times and then to write her a long love letter. "And which of the cardinal virtues does Maya most enjoy?" I ask. "And what does she think of blacksmithing?"
"I'm writing the damn essays, Mom. Okay? I'm writing them. Get off my back. It's my process."
I sense the platitude of the wise high school college counselor. True enough, it's his process but the kid – immensely talented in most things – is not a good writer, hence the essay process requires at least three rewrites. He's already got a full ride to Pitt which is a great school, so maybe I should back off, let him deal with getting rejected from Deep Springs –
"And anyway Annie said she'd help me with the essays."
Annie! And instantly all the recent hurt feelings and the big red flashing Failure sign come back into play and I hiss, "Fine. Then go to Annie and leave me out of it. I'm through with helping you." And I slam the bedroom door and crawl into bed with the always upbeat Ian Rankin. Rebus has gone back to drinking. There are a lot of child molesters in Edinburgh. It wouldn't be such a bad thing to live the rest of my life never speaking to Max again, would it? He's the Golden Boy, everybody loves him. It's not like he'd miss me. I could become an alcoholic and die in some transient hotel on Geary Boulevard, assuming there still are transient hotels on Geary Boulevard. He could marry Maya, invest wisely in Singapore biotechs, grow rich and prosperous. A win-win situation all around.
An hour later we're talking again and before he leaves, he hammers out a rough draft of one of the essays.
Motherhood: too much work.
