saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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I got the potty training down. Now for the vomiting insect aversion therapy.
I was going to write something about dating and relationships and looooove. But I'm not really very good at all that. Writing about it. Maybe not even good at the actual acts themselves. Lack of practice, I suppose. At least no one has told me yet that it's like "riding a bike." I think the euphemism that can be created out of that kind of observation might make me cover up my ears like a twelve-year-old (not yet a teenager) and say, "LALALAICAN'THEARYOULALALA." Not for my sake, I'm thinking, but more for everyone who might be reading this. We all know that I can't help writing about anything and everything that is of as little global, political and intellectual worth as possible. So you can thank me for my omissions as you see fit.
I'm there for you, man.
Last weekend, as we were driving around the city running errands, Taylor noticed that there was a gnat trapped in the car. She's not terribly fond of bugs as it is (where the hell did she get that kind of aversion?), and especially not of the flying variety. However, she holds it together really well these days. Anytime an insect is within a five mile radius, you can hear the alarm in her voice as she speaks, but it is very nicely glossed over with a tone of intense, concentrated calm. "There is a bug in here, momma," she observed from the back seat, and I noted with some trepidation that the quiver in her words indicated impending full-blown Icky Bug Panic, like a starving pit bull held in check with a piece of dental floss.
At this point, our car approached a particularly busy intersection, and I reluctantly turned my attention to achieving a left-hand turn across six lanes of traffic consisting mostly of the Young (with their right feet nailed firmly down to the floor on the gas pedal), the Old (think of people with ten-ton sedans and reflexes like fungus), and the Stupid (anyone driving a Honda modified in any way). Throw in a handful bicyclists in full, eye-searing spandex gear, and you've got one hell of a Frogger game.
At about this time, my daughter chose to speak as loudly and rapidly as possible, as though engaging in a bizarre phobia relaxation technique, trying to keep herself at stress level 3 or below. Eight years old and already practicing in vivo exposure therapy. Way to go, sweetie.
Her babble went something like this:
Taylor: Mom, did you know that flies throw up when they land? Every time they land. On everything.
Me: Mmmhmm�
Taylor: They just barf. Baaaarf.
Me: Yeah.
Taylor: On car seats. On dogs. On people.
(Long pause as I concentrate on the road, and Taylor collects her thoughts, or engages in deep breathing or something.)
Taylor: They throw up on flowers. And houses. And if a person was asleep, flies might barf in their MOUTHS.
I want to say I can gracefully handle situations with high traffic, panicked youngsters, and puke lectures. And that, in this case, horrible car maneuvers did not occur, ending with me growling incoherently under my breath, akin to the Old Man in "The Christmas Story" when he would do battle with the furnace. I want to say that when we finally got home that I didn't have a head full of violence toward my fellow drivers, my middle fingers permanently clutched against my palms in the effort not to offer the most ridiculous gesture of driving-related contempt in history, and a child who was still going strong about how every surface on the face of the earth was covered in fly vomit.
I also want saag paneer.
That's something I want, and can have. Let's go with that, shall we?
4:57 p.m. - 2003-05-05
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