i haz an anger

Infant Solitary Confinement is bad, mmkay?

~ Bon Steele ~ 5 Comments

For the first time in ages, I have time to sit and read. Read blogs, news sites, Facebook, etc. etc.  It is glorious. Informative. Thought-provoking. And sometimes, angry-making.

I came across an article during my breakfast bowl of Sriracha and chicken Ramen noodles (don’t judge) that infuriated me.  Not the article itself but one of the ideas it was debunking.

The implications of the entire article are interesting and something that I have slowly learned as a parent. Letting your kids roam is good for them. Letting them learn autonomy is GOOD FOR THEM.
But, and this is important, in order to do this – kidlets must, must, must (and I will reiterate this point a lot) know that they are being raised in a world by parents who will back them up.
One of the concepts that this article bashes is that of Ferberisation. A concept dating from the 1890’s. Haven’t we outgrown this bullshit?

“Parents are encouraged to schedule and limit the time they spend checking on the baby. Does the system work? Of course it does. That is hardly the question. The real issue is why would such a thing be promoted?”1

What the ever-loving fuck?  Why are parents being taught to put their infants into what amounts to solitary confinement? What the hell, people? Who thought this was a good idea?2

 “a famous British advocate of the system….[says] that babies who have been forced into a routine will later adapt easily to a school routine and, one presumes, be more malleable to a workforce system.”

Yes, by Gumby. Because malleable and easily controlled drones are exactly what the world needs right now. Yanno, instead of babies and children who know that their parents got their backs.

FERFUCKSAKES.

Now before anyone says anything, I totally grok needing a schedule for a child. I also grok that the needs of a hunter/gatherer tribe and an industrialized 8 to 73 –er  are going to be completely different.  It is the price we pay for the privileges we have – running water, electricity, the internets, etc. etc.

However, and really why should I have to say this?, you adapt. You pick up your crying baby. You make sure that from an early age they understand that Mums and Daddums (or Daddums and Daddums, or Mums and Mums, or Mums and Mums and Daddums, ∞) are going to be there for them.  That way, later on, they will be able to roam with the sure and certain knowledge of parental backup.

1– Quotes are from here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/may/04/leave-them-kids-alone-griffiths which is, in turn, an extract from Kith: The Riddle Of The Childscape, by Jay Griffiths, published by Hamish Hamilton

2– Note, this is NOT up for debate. This is a rhetorical question. My blog. My rules. Keep in mind that I am the person who quietly barks at lax parents to “pick up your crying baby, you moron” while in public spaces.  You want to debate this, go to another forum where it is being bandied about. I am commenting on the absolute bugfuckery of this idea. BUGFUCKERY. >,<

3 – 9 to 5 has gone the way of the dodoes in today’s society.

A Rant: Now With Photos

~ Bon Steele ~ 16 Comments

*SIGH*

This is going to be a bit stream of consciousness. I am on the exhausted side.

Y’see, I’ve been cleaning for the last five hours.

Oh, quit yer laughing. I got 2 (two!) rooms done. That’s it.

My family are pigs.
😦

Most specifically, my darling daughter is a screaming slob.
I am so tired of the eye-rolling, deep in her personal fable, egocentric, poor pitiful sweetie, everybody1 always picks on me, Cindarella ..thing.2

I’ve written before on her inability to complete a particular chore or clean up after herself. It hasn’t gotten any better. It may have actually gotten worse, on some fronts.

And I’m just done.
Done with a capital ‘fuck it.’

I had hoped that by adopting an abridged and not nearly so neurotic Fly-Lady inspired schedule of cleaning, that keeping house wouldn’t be so difficult. That we wouldn’t have to do the all-day Saturday scrubkriegs of my youth.

I had further hoped that by mostly keeping my nose out of her room she would keep it…well, if not as clean as I’d like, at least not filthy.

Apparently, I was just flat wrong about that. Even my basic rule of No Eating/Drinking in there means nothing. I pulled out several cups, bowls, plates, and utensils out of her bedroom. There is some sort of organic…stuff?… on the bottom of her trash bin.

I can recall my parents telling me that “this isn’t a hotel, we aren’t your servants” when I was a kid. I also recall my room being neater, my attitude being less Woe Unto Me, and less generally unhygienic.

But mayhaps that is just the lens of long years clouding my hindsight.

I’ve tried bribery, firmness, marshmallow-y sweetness, boundary setting, grounding. What I have left is embarrassment.

I’ve gone into her room and taken several photos of the mess that it currently lives in. Also her bathroom. I had  scrubbed it a week or so ago, and asked her to keep it clean(ish).  You can bet I was more than a bit shocked to find it in the condition I did today.

I am going to post this one picture (of the bathroom) so that y’all have an idea of the order of magnitude of slop we are talking about.

Taken from the doorway. I was afraid to set foot in there. 😦

Just..

What…

**FLAIL**

 

 

 

I still have so much left to do.
But every time I move a piece of furniture or pick up something to clean under it3, I find piles of trash. Food wrappers. Dirty socks. Plates. Glasses with milk going sour in them. Clean clothes mixed in with dirty clothes.

All of this, on top of the Attitude that I get whenever I ask her to do something around the house has me full on furious.

GRARGH.

Going to go blow up zombies for a bit. Drink some tea. Calm down.

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of it’s furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.
–Rumi

1 – And by “everybody” she means anyone who asks her to do anything in this house.
2 – If you read that in this style, then I did it right. Or write, as the case may be.
3 – As you are *supposed* to do.

That’s Nice….Now What?

~ Bon Steele ~ 7 Comments
A small post in which I let off some steam via ranting about a recent conversation.

Monday, all my Finals are belong to you.

And really? Thank goodness. I mean, if only from a clean-and-neat point of view I’d like my desk back.

My slovenliness. Let me show it to you.

 

I’d also like my brain, my fiction, my clean laundry as something other than an afterthought, and my sanity back.

Of course, that last one is unlikely. I do have a teenage daughter, after all.

WUT?

As I sat down to my1 desk this morning, I pondered the reasons that I am going through all of this. I mean – there has to be a good rationale behind my decision to pursue my degree at my semi-advanced age, right?
To wander a giant campus full of people2 that I don’t know?
To put myself through this sturm und drang?
As I’ve been recently asked, “What is the point of getting the degree? What are you going to do with it?”

Umm.
Display it on the wall? Be proud of myself for finishing something that I started? Round out my education and my knowledge? Discover new ways of thinking?

Apparently, those aren’t good reasons. No. There must be a fiscal explanation. A path that leads from classroom to bank, as it were.

I mean, really.
What are you going to do with the degree?
What are your Plans for the Future?
What are you going to DO WITH IT?

Man. That all sounds like lyrics from a terrible 80’s power ballad. Heh. Or a Prince song.  Think about the future!

Basically, you’re asking what I want to be when I grow up, right? Because that’s what the underlying message here is. I’m in school therefore technically I am not an adult. And why? Because I am not currently earning a living.

Not earning a living = Not an adult.

What an utter crock.

Here’s a quick overview of what I can do with my Bachelors of Arts, Professional Writing focus with a minor in Psychology, you pompous asshat.

I like my answer better, though.

 

1 – really, astonishingly messy – the picture does NOT do it justice
2 – The whole cartoon is fabulous. Do yourself a favor. Go watch.