“Even the darkest night will end…

…and the sun will rise.”
– Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

I read a lot, you guys. Like, pretty well constantly having some sort of written word in front of my face. Books, games, blogs, backs of cereal boxes.

A lot.

One of the people that  I read about has the loveliest, most lyrical voice I have heard in a long while. She writes eloquently about her life, her depression, and her work to feel her way along in the world. It’s beyond moving.
Maybe it is especially so for me, as I see echoes of my younger self in her words. It could also be just that the work is stunning.

She wrote something this morning that grabbed my heart and shook it. Shook it like a terrier with a rat, to be frank. She spoke how her anxiety and depression were tearing her up, shredding her, exhausting her, making her feel worthless and unwanted; made her feel without hope.

I wish I could capture what she said, and I don’t want to link her without her permission (I’ve been recently told that that is not kosher). But, I wanted to put here the response I wrote.
It may be terrible poetry – but it is, one hopes, empathetic verse.

It’s not always like this.
There isn’t always a pile of unopened mail
there isn’t always laundry organized and still waiting.
Mundane tasks left behind while we sit and wonder
About all the work we have left undone.
You do good things.
But, better…
You are good.
You are worth every bit
of work and hope and love.
It isn’t about earning someone’s trust
and love and acceptance.
Fuck that. It’s
Remembering that you are loved and accepted and trusted.
Sometimes we forget
Sometimes we crumble
Sometimes we hover too long in one spot
Forgetting that we can strafe right, left, criss-cross
Zoom, soar, and dart.

——-

I am not, as you can see, much of a poetess. But I, like most writers, feel things especially hard. You’re having an emotion? Here, have it in spades. Have it in hundreds! (Quoth the brain).

Anywho, reading your words today gave me (as the kids say) all the feels. I sincerely hope that as you read people’s words back to your own, you can see the care and acceptance.

I hope these words find you better, find you safe, find you happy.

Having cast your own words out into the internet; a bottled message in a digital sea, if you will forgive the conceit, please accept this response as the outstretched hand that it is meant to be. 

Infant Solitary Confinement is bad, mmkay?

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 7–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.