In which a harpy reflects on her sins
So what’s the deal with my being so down on per-blogging (i may or may not have just made up that word — it’s a variation based on per-zines.) There are a couple of personal blogs I currently read that are quite awesome and they deal with the same issues as the ones that make my skin crawl. Is it the style of writing? Is it really shallow of me to want to be entertained, essentially? When it comes down to it, blogs are written for an audience and to essentially entertain others. They’re not diaries or super-secret journals otherwise they wouldn’t be online. And the blog entries that kinda whine and hint about some aspect of one’s life without really fleshing out details are basically the equivalent of playing that game where you dare someone to tease information out of you. You know the one where the person you’re sitting with suddenly says, “Oh wow” or “Man!” or makes some kind of tooth-sucking noise and then wait until you say, “what?” Can you tell I hate that game?
So, it’s confessional time. I’m hoping to add this to our regular diablogging so hopefully Atena will be interested in doing this too. I have to confess that I harbored such evil thoughts about a toddler yesterday. We walked up to a nearby park and I was watching Henry playing. He’s at the age where I can now sit back a bit and watch him do various things without having to hover to ensure his safety. Anyway, there was a cherubic little fella sitting across from Henry and it looked like they were about to do some intense staring or scar comparison or what have you. Henry reaches down and picks up a handful of mulch. I thought perhaps he might show this new aquisition to his companion but instead he tossed the handful in the air at the other child. You would have thought someone had told this other kid that he can never see his favorite toy again. He had an utterly mortified look on his face. I kind of floundered and tried to capture Henry and impress upon him that this was not the best sort of playground behavior (he’s not even two — you can’t impress much upon him yet). The other little boy just sat there, still stunned. And sat. And sat. He probably sat there for about five minutes before he started trying to get his mother’s attention, still sitting in the same spot with bits of mulch around and stuck to him. He was a pitiful sight. Finally, after we’d moved on to the swings, his mom answered him and I noticed he was pointing in our direction. Here’s the confession part. The whole time I felt no remorse or sadness that my child had made another child sad. My thought was, “What a wimp! This kid will never make it on the playground if a little mulch SHATTERS HIS WHOLE WORLD.” My god, am I going to raise a bully? Am I that much of an evil, mean girl that I can think such things about a kid who’s probably only three years old? I better go read some Leo Buscalia or paint some happy little clouds.
andrea
