The imposter hunters haven’t caught me yet
The fake parent feeling persists, and sometimes it’s hilarious
“Turns out you can’t have this. We’re going to confiscate this baby to give to a suitable family.”
When I imagine this kind of incident, it’s one of those waking nightmares, complete with dream logic. They’re scary dreams, but it’s a whimsical and existential type of scary. It’s akin to the ways I imagine how I could die every time I’m on or near a road, or how as a small child I used to think the stabs from sharp lumps in my intestines were a sign I was going to explode into a dragon. This was an overarching b-plot in second grade that had me constantly ready to flee to the bathroom so no one would see. Or, how no matter how old and how properly educated we all are about what can possibly be in a basement, I’m not the only person who pulls the chain on the basement lightbulb and immediately sprints up the stairs to evade the little skeletal Jack Russel Terrier monster. The anti-Wishbone. Or maybe a normal-sized non-ridiculous looking monster.
In the child confiscation scenario, the confiscators come through a portal or something. The ideation doesn’t distinguish between magic portals and sci-fi portals. You could call that out as a failure in world-building on the part of my intrusive thoughts, and maybe that would make it less scary.
They’re not here to serve papers from an invasive government telling me I’ve been declared unfit. It’s more that the higher (magic and/or sci-fi) powers have uncovered my secret, that I’m a ghost or an alien or a fairy — Or all Ohio, always has been — and thus can’t keep a human child.
Regular Greeting
Hello, friends.
This publish-on-Friday and hold-out-hope-for-bonus-content-all-weekend schedule is working out great. I no longer spend the weekend feeling guilty for not being finished and can sometimes even get in some token amount of studying.
For those subscribed to get emails, thanks! Also, it’s going to be once a week and fairly short. The bonus content won’t go out in the emails, just the Friday posts. The real deadline is Mondays, but I really set myself up for a self-esteem surplus that keeps me going all weekend by finishing early.
A good day to fail hard
I had a truly bad presentation yesterday that reminded me that I have forgotten how to speak. I have always been bad at public speaking, and didn’t improve much by doing it for a living for fifteen years. Maybe I got worse. Thinking back, I might have done such an awkward rant of a powerpoint show in high school.
Like a proper awkward person, I’ve been reliving it and trying to reassure myself that I’m not disintegrating my whole brain and all bodily function as I slide down a degenerative slope into death. On review, I’ve always been pretty bad at most homework, especially group projects. I’m generally bad at learning most things — the more useful the harder to learn — but many things, once they’ve been poured in without any sense of order, suddenly shake twice and align perfectly, making perfect sense. There’s a little Tetris victory sound and sparkle effect. At my age, I can also forget this newly mastered knowledge just as easily, but it’s sometimes there and and can be re-activiated.
Baby News — they let us keep it
I must acknowledge this is a very nice baby and I’m still surprised every time I look over and the baby is still there, in good health. Often the child is breathing loudly or sleep-vogue-ing. This child’s first notable quirk was to scrunch up into an about-to-cry face that instantly pivots into a goofy toothless emoji smile. The new variation of that is to make an active series of baby grunts that sound like crying at a distance. On closer inspection the child is smiling cheerfully at one of the top corners of the cribs.
Now, I’ve gotten the memo that I need to be showing the child those bold black and white cards that make babies extra smart. I guess I could go buy some. They’re not that expensive, but as weird misers who feel guilty buying things, we just couldn’t bring ourselves to do it. Instead, I draped a pair of zebra-print leggings over the side of the crib. The baby seemed to love that.
“You hold up the black-and-white card in front of the baby, and the baby’s eyes will follow it,” said my brother-in-law when he gave us two perfectly good card that we quickly misplaced. Or I misplaced, putting it somewhere that seemed logical and safe to me and only me, only at that moment in time, but now is a mystery to the whole world.
Holding up the folded zebra pants seemed to do the trick. The baby watched me wave those leggings around.
But now it seems that bare grey corner of the crib is just as alluring and en-smartening. At least it sure seems to spark joy for the baby.
Really, a very good baby. Usually so quiet that when I’m focused on something like writing, studying or cleaning (just kidding, I don’t focus when cleaning,) I come back and look at the crib to be jolted back to the realization that the baby exists and is in good health. Usually, the baby is asleep with that cute little turnip face and that chin line that looks exactly like a curly brace, and that surprising sharp lip that also curves like a curly brace. Also the little burst blood vessels in the child’s eyelids that now look like pink eyeshadow. There’s another round of blood vessels on the child’s head that make a perfectly heart-shaped strawberry mark.
How did we get such a good and happy little baby? We weren’t especially healthy or careful. We did our best, but our best has always felt inadequate. I feel I’ve always been told that I’m inadequate when I do my best and try my hardest. This time, at least, it turned out well.
Helped by a sad, upsetting story
I remember being incredulous when folks like my Mom would cite a singular instance of revelation that set them on the right path and changed their lives. Change is hard work that takes lots of tedium, my teen self would spitefully say. I still believe that, even when something inspiring happens and I get a huge wave of commitment to doing better.
Seeing the folks at Respect the Dead talk about a sad and lonely man was one of those moments. The combination of being unable to properly interface socially with other people AND being violently bitter towards all the “normal” people was too relatable for comfort. I felt fortunate that my awkwardness and autism has been better understood recently than it was from childhood to a few years ago. Also having a couple of very supportive friends and family members seems to help with not always feeling like the whole world is one big bully.
Anyway, Hoots (here talking about a dastardly marketing scam), during the discussion of this man’s life called his book a memoir-festo. That’s a great portmanteau. It also made me think about whether all memoirs are on a spectrum of memoir-festo to straight manifesto. Surely there should be enough reflection on a life story to be aware of the biographed person’s philosophy for life. I was already hoping to revise the angriest commentary I’ve thought about my life with more grace for other people and more hope for myself.
