Monday, 3 December 2012

Small Town Hair




This from Rob Brezney’s Freewill Astrology page:

The Four Foolish Virtues

Traditionally, the Seven Deadly Sins — actions most likely to wound the soul — are
pride, lust, gluttony, anger, envy, sloth, and covetousness.

But we have formulated a fresh set of soul-harmers, the Four Foolish Virtues. They are as
follows:

(1) being analytical to such extremes that you repress your intuition;

(2) sacrificing your pleasure through a compulsive attachment to duty;

(3) tolerating excessive stress because you assume it helps you accomplish more;

(4) being so knowledgeable that you neglect to be curious.

***

My daughter is not yet in daycare in our new small town residence. And I am really tired
of watching my semi-retired partner come and go as he pleases whereas I can’t. Why? I
think Rob has the answer here. Number Two: A compulsive attachment to duty.

I have, for the first time, left the house without “permission.” No one has ever told me I
can’t leave without permission. So why do I feel like I’m breaking the rules?

I mean… I shouted up the stairs, which is what Sir Dick does.

Me: “I’m heading out for a coffee!”
Him: “Who is?”
Me: “I am. You can follow me if you want,” I add weakly, not meaning it.

I could have said “I’m going out to get diapers and juice,” (not that I ever do that) but I
didn’t. I said coffee.

And now I am here, in the café with my Americano, and now I am guilty. And I am being
petty about my coffee. The barista put it in a tall skinny cylindrical pottery mug. I look at
it. I deserve better than this! I have just walked out on my baby!

I tell Barista “I’m worried when I drink it the coffee will hit me in the face.”

I want it to hit me in the face.

When I left home, the Guppins was crying, shouting from the top of the
stairs, “MomEEEE!!” But she had bitten my breast — she’s been sooo grumpy, she has
not been sleeping — and a whole bunch of other crappy things happened.

Like: the glorious week in which I had home care for two to three hours per day…ended.
(See my previous blog entry.)

Like: East End Mama travelled to Smalltown to visit, to party (her aunt was going to
babysit), and the second she arrived I came down with stomach flu. And the Guppins
bit her daughter in the face, which makes me absolutely crazy and helpless and
embarrassed…and fear for my daughter’s mental health and my parenting skills…and
worried for Cookie’s, well, face. We didn’t get to go out that night. I never get to go out
at night. Except the last time when I was out by myself and wrote about it the whole time
I was out.

And the next day (today), I had planned, with much effort and leviathan convincing, to
escape to the city for a rare overnighter to:

Get my hair cut and low-light my “silver”
Have drinks with friends
Go to an important theatre opening (if I miss another one I know they’ll take me
off the invite list)
Have more drinks with friends
Get eight hours sleep
Go to a nutrition appointment for the Guppins (okay, I’ll admit I was planning on
cancelling this one)
Have a decent coffee with Secret Weapon Mama
Hit the Mennonite thrift on the drive home
Drop off a letter of introduction for a job in Smalltown (the only thing I really
needed to do)

But Sir Dick, suddenly, came down with the stomach bug I just got over.

So I cancelled everythiiiinnnnnnggg.

Then, two hours later, he feels fine.

He doesn’t seem to get that I am disappointed. He sees it all as a money-spending
excursion.

Him: “How much does it cost to get your hair done in the city?”
Me: “$95 dollars” (lie) (it’s way more)
Him: “Can’t you find someone here to do it?”

(Choking back tears…seeing where this is going… I don’t WANT to have small-town
over-highlighted orangey-spikey hair. I want my city locks, subtle and ashy.)

Me: “I really hope you are still feeling sick.”
Him: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

When I was sick, he didn’t offer to help. He didn’t feel the need to stay home. I had to
plead: help me, please do the night-time routine…falling against the wall, choking back
vomit.

The truth is, I know he’s just not up for it. He’s…well, he’s older. He’s a brilliant father,
don’t get me wrong, but the pace of it, the energy it takes… maybe I have an over-
attachment to duty, but I feel like…like there’s no one else.

When that little stomach bug started coming on, it wasn’t just disappointment I felt about
being landlocked. I began to panic. I am not strong enough to be sick and be a mother at
the same time. But who will look after her? How will they cope? How have women, for
so so many centuries, been looking after kids while they have the stomach flu?

It makes me mad.

And yes feel guilty.

And I feel trapped.

I rush home from the coffee shop only to discover his car is gone, where did they go?
I burn around town (for once I’m glad it’s small) looking for them. I see them! Parked
outside the coffee shop. Relief floods me. The Guppins spots me, and shouts “Mommee!”
her little face beaming. I begin to weep. Sir Dick looks at me like I am crazy. This is
usually how it goes.

The rest of the day is a family day. No TV, we do some shopping, we make out in the
car while she naps in the backseat; we pick up lots of new secondhand books for her,
he drives me to the big theatre in town and I drop off my resume; there’s dancing in the
kitchen at suppertime. It was… is, pretty perfect.

And at one point I catch myself saying to my daughter, “You see? You can’t always do
everything you want to when you want to.”

Kindly, Sir Dick asks me if I would go to the city tomorrow since I missed out today. I
say, “No, it’s okay. Look at all the good things that happened. It was good to focus on
family.”

I said that.

Then:

“What fun things we gonna do tomorrow?”

So maybe the thing to do is transform duty into pleasure…at every chance you get.
Because this is all…well, take it from a gal with a near-septuagenarian boyfriend and a
two year old… it’s all going by pretty quickly.

Duty into pleasure. But keep your big city hairstylists. Please.



-Drama Mama

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