On Being a Werewolf

TR is convinced I am a werewolf.

 

And he is only half kidding.

 

When asked why he believes this, he responds, “Well, there are so many reasons.  First of all you look like a werewolf.”  I think I should be insulted?

 

“Secondly, you fully have admitted that you howl at the moon.”  Ah, youth.

 

“Thirdly your religious beliefs are very close to that of a werewolf.”  I didn’t realize werewolves were religious.

 

“You have insomnia, around full moons.  I’ve been keeping a journal.”  Dude needs a hobby.

 

“The fact you jokingly admit to being a werewolf which is exactly what I would do if I was a werewolf and I didn’t want anyone to know it.  By joking about it you inoculate yourself.”  I can’t really argue with that except to say that is a fairly flimsy reason to accuse someone of being a werewolf.

 

“Your opposition to the second amendment.”  Are werewolves big in the anti-gun movement?

 

My rebuttal:

My face is far more horsey than wolfish.  If howling at the moon is good enough for the Ramones and Hank Williams, its good enough for me.  I am more spiritual than religious.  I am insomniac, but it generally revolves around stress and not the full moon.  I jokingly admit to being a werewolf because it kind of freaks him out, which is funny.  I do not oppose the second amendment.

 

Most importantly, I have never been to Trader Vics, I don’t really like pina colodas and my hair is never perfect.

 

So gentle reader, let me put this to you.  How do I convince TR I am not a werewolf?  Or, maybe, how does he convince me I am?

On Not Murdering Your Children

I consistently experience a fascinating phenomena when interacting with my child.  Perhaps this example will resonate with you parents out there.

“Fiend, could you please brush your hair?”

“I have to go to the bathroom first.”

Twenty minutes later.

“Fiend, can you please brush your hair?”

“I have to finish this art thing first!  It’s important.”

Ten minutes later.

“Fiend brush your hair.”

“I have to kill this fly first.”

Five minutes later.

“Brush. Your. Hair”

“But I’m rearranging my dolls.”

This goes on until I have a mini nervous breakdown that leaves the Fiend pouting, Bayou hiding under the table, TR stifling laughter and me feeling like 2010’s Worst Parent of the Year.

I am aware that in all likelihood I did the very same thing to my poor mother with similar results.  Somehow this doesn’t make dealing with it any easier.

In the moment I can not wrap my brain around her insistence on not just doing what I ask when I ask it.  Why is it so impossible to just brush her hair, put on her shoes, get dressed, pick up her toys or get in the shower when I ask her to?  Does she just have faulty wiring?

When I stop seeing red and fire ceases to shoot from my eyes it occurs to me that a seven year old has very little control over much of her lives.  She is subject to the will of adults all the time.  Her mother, TR, her teachers, even her bus driver.

The Fiend has suffered through more than her fair share of boring adult events because she was forced to by her mother.  She can’t to go to the playground without one of us coming along.  She doesn’t get to decide when she gets up in the morning or when she goes to bed at night.  She rarely gets a say in what she eats.

Perhaps doing things on her in time is her way of saying, “I am my own person and I will do things my own way.”  Maybe her distractions have less to do with acting out and more to do with asserting her individuality.

Or maybe she just thinks its hilarious when I lose my cool.  I know TR does.