I 
I 
I 
I 
I
I
I
DOMESTIC
DISTURBANCE:
Yes and No
Franny's taken to running away when things don't
go her way. Faced with the loss of the garish ankh tattoo she got out
of a vending machine or the news that she can't go swimming until she cleans
her room, she stomps around noisily, weeping and throwing clothes in her
backpack, and dramatically announces that she's leaving. Usually she
gets about halfway down the block before she returns, all smiles and eager to
tell us about the butterfly she saw or the new birdcall she heard.
I know how she feels; sometimes I just need a
little space, too. Our house is relatively roomy, but with five people,
one elderly dog, two kittens and seven fish, not to mention all the
accoutrement of the aforementioned people and animals, things can be a little
overwhelming. It's a far cry from the quiet, ordered sanctuaries
described in the glossy homemaking magazines that accost me every time I buy
groceries.
When the kids are around, It's virtually
impossible for me and Adam to have any kind of adult conversation, because
every thought is interrupted by another request or announcement of
wrongdoing: "Mommy, where are my shoes?" "Dad,
Drew changed the channel!" "Mom, Alec's putting peanut butter
on the dog!" And of course, this is all performed to a backup
orchestration of video game beeping, Kid's Bop 7, and various loud toys
purchased by sadistic childfree relatives.
If they're not interrupting us, the kids are
bickering with one another or engaging in Let's Pretend with loud, detailed
narration, delivered in that droning, rising inflection that seems reserved
for children's games ("And I had a beautiful golden dress and I got hit
on the head? And I was knocked out and my power went down and I forgot
who I was? But the flying people save me and take care of me?") As
an option of last resort, they talk to themselves: the last time Adam and I
paid bills, Alec did a puzzle alone in his room, all the while singing,
"No, no, no, no, no, no. . ." at top volume, to the tune of the
alphabet song.
Every time we think we've gotten them all settled and we attempt to re-embark on whatever topic we were discussing, there's another interruption, or worse, everything gets eerily quiet, which means they're probably engaged in something particularly dangerous and destructive. It's a bit like the Kurt Vonnegut story, "Harrison Bergeron," in which smart people are subjected to a thought disrupting buzzer that goes off every few seconds to keep them from taking unfair advantage of their brainpower. (Is there some kind of evolutionary benefit to constantly derailing your parents' trains of thought? I wouldn't discount it -- there were definitely times when I was a kid that the only thing that saved me from certain death was that my father got distracted by something else and forgot what a little terror I'd been).
(continued at right)
On top of the usual noise, clutter and pressures of everyday life -- sick
kids, broken dishwashers, piles of laundry and dishes -- we've all been extra
stressed out recently. The company where Adam works was recently
acquired by another corporation and he's in the process of a long, drawn-out
lay-off. His job will be eliminated in September, but first he has to
travel to
One day last week, I'd had enough. The house
looked like someone had set off a small bomb in it, the kids were tired and
whiny, Adam and I were snapping at each other, and I was obsessively fretting
about a throwaway conversation I'd had with one of my new co-workers,
wondering if I'd inadvertently stuck my foot in my mouth. On the spur
of the moment, I decided to take a page from Franny's book and get away from
it all.
Outside, it was a perfect late spring evening, balmy, lush and peaceful.
Honeysuckle and roses were blooming extravagantly, perfuming the air, the
grass in the park was soft and green, fireflies twinkled, and doves cooed.
Half the neighborhood seemed to have taken to the streets to enjoy this last
bit of pleasant weather before the summer heat set in, and everyone waved
genially as I passed.
I drew a series of deep breaths and felt something
tight in my chest release. It became easier to breathe, and the tension
in my shoulders relaxed. When I returned home, Alec hurled himself at
me, 40 pounds of sweaty adoration, and I heaved him up into my arms and
danced him around the living room to the tune of the Pokemon theme. I
listened patiently as Drew narrated the plot of the novel he was reading and
Franny recited the poem she'd composed to our new kittens. The looming
pressures receded and everything fell into perspective again.
Instead of Alec's "No" song, I thought
of Molly Bloom's words from Ulysses: "yes I said yes I will
yes." For all its craziness, this is exactly the life I wanted.
Sometimes I just need a little space to remember that.
___________
About the Author:
Melissa Lipscomb lives in Austin with her children Drew, Franny, Alec and
husband Adam. Some days she feels like she's figuring out, and others she's
just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Visit her blog.
