I get strange looks when I tell people that. I think they picture 5 barefoot innocents roaming and starving. They half-laugh uncomfortably in hopes that I’m kidding. Then that blatant pity stare washes over their faces. They want to pat my back sympathetically like a wounded puppy, and I just keep jabbering, telling fondly of nights out climbing trees to cheat at Flashlight Tag, days trekking through big, sweeping fields to get to the river, the thrill of cold splashes and the mystique of rusted out trucks and crumbling barns grown down into the earth. When I get to the part about rainy afternoons spent swooshing pennies across the kitchen table (choreographing the coins to radio pop)  I notice they’re sufficiently horrified.  I change topics: sports teams, sports teams, weather.

Don’t go too hard on my parents for forcing us outside.We had shoes, and bikes, and attention, even. If anything, talk stern to them for those wooden spoon spankings because -Sting of all stings!- that behemoth hand was heavy enough on the ouch.

Because the most precious gift of my childhood was boredom, the steady training that if I wanted fun I could damn well get up, go out and make it. We have two feet for stomping, two hands for clapping and a mouth that can sing. When sitting still without toys and tools, without a platter of instant entertainment settled neatly on my lap, I had to think. And it was when I thought that creativity stewed and simmered. Those simple feet and hands and parts could be more than enough to play, run, skip, cart-wheel, dance, and climb. Suddenly sticks and pennies, garden sprinklers and pebbles were magnificent props, exciting extras. Simplicity sparked creativity, and I was never bored again.

But then time happens. I’m a mother now in an age where forcing my kid outside will get him forcibly removed from my care, where futuristic gadgets that sync to an infant’s personal iPad are the norm, where I’ve forgotten my roots a bit, fallen victim to a good marathon of bad reality TV.

So my toddler has his own wing in an otherwise modest house. His palace of play things is impressive and guaranteed to distract and preoccupy even the most frantic attention span. At 3 he has amassed more toys than his woefully motorcycle-less dad and I combined. Throughout this bitter, cold season I’ve dutifully dished out fun in the standard form of blocks and big, shiny trucks, flashing-light sing-songing motion-censoring things to protect him from that stir-crazy hunger that is boredom. When those lights lost their shine, blocks had been built and demolished, when those gnarly truck crashes stopped making him flinch and smile, we’d pay for trips to establishments of arcade games and bouncy houses, cupcake shops and toy stores. Just weeks ago, we wasted a cold day working through a collection of cartoon movies. Thomas didn’t even laugh at the punchlines. I thought to take him to bounce on bouncy houses before remembering our last experience when, after paying the inflated fee for fun, he bounced one time and said he was ready to go. And it wasn’t good parenting or wisdom that led me to say to him then “I don’t know, homeboy. You’ve got two thumbs. Twiddle them?”. It was a complete lack of ideas. I was all out of magic Mom tricks. I was out of practice, rusty in the ways of making the most mundane miraculous.  He looked a bit betrayed, disappointed in a lady who always seemed to have the secret ingredient (or 12 buck for an entry fee) to fun.

After some quiet minutes I heard a shuffling. A minute more and I felt the house shake as loud thuds boomed. He found his answer to boredom. I found… this.

Thombot 3000 formerly known as a random box from the garage. The small man seemed like he’d just won a prize. The way we find a $20 bill in our pocket when we thought we were broke. It is the relief of finding an endless supply of fun just when he fretted he had nothing to do.

We are trading pennies and playing grocery store. And when we get to the grocery store the boy is stealthy and alert, scanning each aisle of freezers and referring to me as Special Agent Mommy. In chilly days that follow I am a dragon and he is the slayer; he is the fireman, and I am over and over again on faux fire. We are washing our already clean hands because soap bubbles are exciting. We are playing Duck Duck Goose which was really only Duck & Goose which is really only me getting bopped repeatedly and trying to keep alert enough despite the head trauma to run around at a second’s notice.

This week the weather cleared. Sun- real, warm sun- covered every new, green thing. Locking us both out of the house I watched those bouncing steps (leaps, really) as he discovered so many options, so many games. There are sticks for sword fighting and rocks to climb and dirt to dig and a little spot around the corner to investigate and rid of ghosts when he deems it The Spooky Forest.

When a local kid asks if Thomas can go inside and play the Wii Station X Cube video game contraption I try not to slap her blasphemous mouth. Because she’s only 9, and because she clearly hasn’t had the opportunity to get bored yet. She can’t know. Blessed are the bored for they were never truly bored at all.

“Your true traveller finds boredom rather agreeable than painful. It is the symbol of his liberty – his excessive freedom. He accepts his boredom, when it comes, not merely philosophically, but almost with pleasure.”

- Aldous Huxley

I was Freshly Pressed a second time the following Friday. In one short week I caught whatever Lindsay Lohan has, lost my manners, and started to believe I was a blue ribbon blogger owed some cyber praise. I briefly considered changing my name to an exclamation point that only the hippest of blogging hipsters would know stood for The Bloggess Formerly Known As Tori. What can I say? Spiking stats make a girl get crazy. So when I realized my equally ridiculous post on how I skipped school and inadvertently killed my dog was featured this new, spotlight-hogging version of myself actually thought “Damn right. DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?”.

I know what you’re thinking, and don’t you worry. You needn’t kick my hoity toity ass because Karma works. My high and mighty self has spent these last years completely ignored by WordPress wizards. The universe understands that I’m not mature enough to win things without losing my mind. WordPress might’ve also caught that crude joke I might’ve made about hypothetically getting back-to-back Freshly Pressed accolades by doling out sexual favors. I take it they didn’t find that funny. Regardless of the reason, this little blog has remained mostly off the radar. I’d like to tell you I’ve grown and learned, reflected and matured from this experience. In some ways I’ve stopped Lohan-ing ( I still can never, ever find my underpants) and realized I can find fulfillment without mass attention. In other ways I’ve just been trying to act nice so someone will give me a prize. I still struggle with bitter resentments when a post about cats or a picture of food takes all the attention instead of my obviously award-worthy rant on potty training.

Today I’m still considered offensive to most WordPress staffers. I never get the fun Sunshine Blogger Awards from fellow writer folk because I’m like the mope-y Eeyore of the Interwebs. But finally, finally this week I am honored and (after a small foray into entitled) sincerely humbled to be Freshly Pegged.

I like Peg-o-leg’s Ramblings so much that I immediately subscribed and stole her blog name. Her sense of humor and hilarious opinion posts keep readers hooked. Just when I thought I couldn’t think any more highly of Peg she outwardly confessed her inner angst against the Freshly Pressed machine. Peg perfectly writes about those private, proud moments when we write something so stinking superb that we are already composing tweets to let the world know “This here brilliance is about to get eight kinds of FP’ed” and the dismay that follows when WordPress shockingly says no thanks.I read along weeping a little, sure that she gets me. She really, really gets me.

Unlike me, Peg up and did something about it, and Freshly Pegged was born. Bloggers get a chance to toot their respective horns and share a post they think was worthy of the front page. Enjoy while I try to handle Freshly Pegged fame without getting cocky.

You can check out my post HERE.

For those of you stopping by for the first time, welcome. I’m not exactly delightful, but occasionally I’m decent. And for those of you faithful readers who follow despite my sad, empty trophy case, thanks… unless you want to send a trophy in which case I spell my name with an ’i’ and that’d be cool, too.

How do you respond to blog attention (or lack thereof)?

Benjamin Button: Only on the outside.

Hi. I’m 10.

_______________________________________________________________________________

He tells me it’s my birthday. I’m 26 today, the husband says. I pop some aspirin, rub a cranky ankle, and all I can think to add is “Hmm. Allegedly“.

   It is my birthday, yes. It is my birthday for exactly the reason I love birthdays. Because they are the fairest and most democratic of all holidays. Because we all get one. The Jewish kids pining for a Christmas tree, the lady feeling left out on Father’s Day, Mars getting all pitiful on Earth Day like “What about me?”: Birthdays obliterate barriers. Regardless of time or date or species, everybody got here somehow. So we celebrate the showing up, the arrival, the start of something or someone good.

   You see, I dispute the number, the years. I was born because, as we’ve established, everyone is. Also there are a host of notarized certificates and my mom‘s poor lady parts to prove I was there. But as I pre-plan my midday nap and which soft foods I’d best like to gum later today I fear this will not be the year I get my age just right. I am Benjemima Button.

    For as long as I can remember I’ve been old. At 9 I sat lanky-legged on the floor of my grandmother’s fancy living room. I listened with much interest and understanding to the various woes of the women: Which kid is acting out now? Who knew divorce was so expensive? Are we out of wine? No part of me felt the difference of years among us. With all the confidence of a short, white Maya Angelou I’d tell this aunt or that cousin just what my wise little mind thought. My unfortunate Mickey Mouse sweatshirt or squeaky voice may have spoken to my smallness, but their big ears seemed to listen.

    By high school I had a keen interest in turtleneck sweaters. I fake-sipped beer because I feared the old indigestion would flare up again. My body for all its blessed elasticity and tan glow said 15. My soul said “Tell that friend you can’t come the party this weekend. Act like you’re grounded. Find fuzzy socks and watch ‘Designing Women’.” While I tried to go through the cheerleading, nervous dating, young & free teen transitions my heart was elsewhere. I sneakily devoured hours of Oprah. I thought short hair was less bouncy but more aerodynamic and practical.

    Today I enjoy quiet sounds, early bed times, watching birds doing bird-like things, and joint-health supplements. I cordially decline most invitations from fellow twenty-somethings, but in my head I get hostile, ranting and raving about those “damn kids” with their “hoodlum boom-boom music”. I feel silly when people ask my age as if I’ve just told them that I am a proud, black man when they can see that clearly I am not. I observe most people of my generation with the trippy sensation that we are the same yet one million miles apart.

   It isn’t bad to be young. There are adventures and flexibility and the brief honor of wearing ridiculous things while still being age-appropriate.There are trendy hotspots and lots of enthusiastic sex and  It isn’t bad to be perpetually older than yourself either. I’m ridiculously well-rested and well-versed in all things Water Aerobics related. Plus, I was accidentally and fortunately spared from the bad bits of youth (the gossip, the trying desperately to fit in, the glitter).  What I’ve wanted for every birthday is just to wake up with a number that fits.

   My hope has been that I will reach an equilibrium of sorts. All this time will tick down only to reveal a pleasant surprise: things are just now winding up. Clues to the closing of the gap are starting, some subtle and others loud and boisterous like a, dare I say it, 26-year-old. I went to a party. I refrained from telling those young punks to take their grimey feet off the couch, did not ask one person where they were when Kennedy was shot, and real-gulped a  real beer. Before I knew it I was awake and it was past 9:03 in the evening. I’m recently infatuated with The Twitter, and I’m half-proud to admit I kind of loved Justin Bieber’s song about the girl and the Dubstep and the whatchamacallit. See? I just said Dubstep. Benjemima be hipper by the minute.

Now. Now I’m ready to party.
via TheHairPin

   Maybe at 27 I’ll say “Hmm. Yes. That one’s just right”. Maybe not. Maybe at 90, when my peers are asking the staff nurse to sponge a little lower, I’ll be squeezing on that sequin tube top, ready to bar dance and get all kinds of “crunk” and”cray”. Geriatric keg stands and the saddest, sloppiest wet t-shirt contest you ever did see because, quite simply, some DJ told me and the other 18-year-olds to “drop it low”. Maybe that nasty, cobwebby image was completely unnecessary because  age doesn’t matter so much as the most basic principle of birthdays: You weren’t. This one day came along. Then you were. I’ll toast my Metamucil to that.

Do you feel your age?

Are you an old soul or young at heart?

______________________________________________________________________________

“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”

- Benjamin Button

]]> http://torinelson.wordpress.com/2013/04/05/the-curious-case-of-benjemima-button/feed/ 86 curious-case-benjamin-button torinelson Hi. I'm 10. Now. Now I'm ready to party.via TheHairPin http://torinelson.wordpress.com/2013/04/03/emergenpsych/ http://torinelson.wordpress.com/2013/04/03/emergenpsych/#comments Wed, 03 Apr 2013 09:00:44 +0000 Tori Nelson http://torinelson.wordpress.com/?p=6118 Continue reading »]]> EMERGENPSYCH

emergenpsych (v): To accidentally instigate mass hysteria

ex: Jane texts her boyfriend “OMG. Having a baby”.  Realizes too late that part 2 of her message failed to send. Figures she’ll just tell her boyfriend on their next date that she meant to say “OMG. Having a baby aspirin. Pulled a Glute in Zumba class”. Wonders why boyfriend inexplicably moves out-of-state and changes his name.

A few summers ago I sat in the shade under a fan while Tom did yard work. He mowed and trimmed and clipped and dug and I determined that this domestic life is the life for me. Despite all this hard labor, I thought between pages of a yummy new book, it’s all so worth it. I courtesy called to the man in the dirt to see if he’d like some water or a break. When I heard no answer I walked to his place among the shrubs to ask again. And there he was. Dying.

I found Tom leaning crumbled over one knee. I asked what was wrong. He didn’t answer. His face twisted upwards to show a look of total pain. I stood there making  nervous faces, asking over and over for him to just let me know this was a joke and maybe we could all laugh about it one day… many days from now when I’m not so pissed and devastated. Still no answer. Only the occasional groan. In leu of logic panic set in. Tom. Tom. Oh Gard. Oh Gard. Mother Gard. Tom. Tom. Tom. Oh Gard. My mind frantically danced in a hundred directions: Heart attack! Internal Combustion? Are the dosages on the Baby Aspirin bottle for actual babies? How can I carry him on my back to the hospital? Oh, I have a car. My name’s not on the car… or the lease. I’ll be a homeless single mother. I’m ill-equipped to do life alone! Oh Sweet Jesus, if you die, Tom, I will kill you.

When I’d come around to the 43^rd stage of grief he muttered that he had a kink in his back. There was relief somewhere deep inside of me, but right there on the surface was mostly fury. I was outraged that he would emergenpsych me, make me worry for all those terrible minutes, not take a moment- between my fretting aloud about how to sign up for welfare assistance and crying over loss of life and life partner- to, I don’t know, maybe clarify that no death was occurring. I was incredibly glad that he was there, sour back but mostly healthy, but not before I was peeved that he couldn’t throw a sister a thumbs up or a small, handwritten note to explain the false alarm.

The only point of this story is to say I left you guys hanging, and I ought to know better.

I wrote a post about the inner workings of a recent funk. It was a long list of reasons I’d been frowning, explanations of why the world could suck the proverbial “it”, and extensive sorrows regarding my socks, all with holes in the heels. It was, by most readers’ accounts, whiny and out of character. Girlfriend depresses like she means it!

Then I mysteriously disappeared.

Weeks pass and nary an update or happy meme graced my page. Just this sad, sad post and silence.  Observers might consider this the cyber equivalent of my giving away a beloved boombox. Many of you wrote me encouraging e-mails and included uplifting quotes, and it took the third mention of Kelly Clarkson lyrics before it occurred to me that my absence from the blog coupled with the ominous Last Will & Blog Post maybe gave you all the wrong impression. What doesn’t kill me does make me stronger, Madame Clarkson, but that’s hardly the point. I fear I emergenpysched you.

In truth my back is completely kink-less. I haven’t been sad. I’ve been lazy, loves. These weeks some of you’ve been fretting I’ve been napping a lot. Also there was some snacking. Add the occasional book read and mile jogged (OKAY. Walked). I forgot all about said funk.

Consider this a bill of good blog health, an apology for the emergenpsych of omnition. Thank you for the messages (sorry I responded with questions marks) and more thanks to you for the plethora of Kelly Clarkson wisdoms. She’s a regular old Pop Gandhi, that one. Now back to our regularly scheduled discussions of important stuff, happy stuff like “Guess Kim & Kanye’s Baby’s Birth Weight In Ounces of Swagger” and also some investigatory blogging like “Working Conspiracy Theory: Supermodels Have Found Fountain of Healthy Chocolate. Hide It From The Rest Of Us”.

And to the rest of you just now realizing  I was gone, what’s wrong with you? I could’ve been kidnapped.  Just kidding. I’m far too tall to fit in a trunk.

What have you been up to while I was sleeping?

My dad radiated joy, surrounded by two of his girls and three of his grandbabies. My sister’s kids ran from the car chasing the free-roaming peacocks and taunting the caged monkeys with ee-ee’s and oo-oo’s and the occasional ah-ah’s. Holding carrot sticks above our happy heads we thrilled and giggled as a giant giraffe arched down so gracefully to greet us. My niece discovered with much glee that one goat was fond of human kisses. She made out with it for several minutes before we thought to hand-sanitize her mouth. Our caravan ambled across a rugged trail, windows bowing open to that beautiful breeze, llamas and buffaloes popping their heads in for a bite of some nondescript pellets the park’s owner sold to us by the tub full. Evermore and by the minute it was shaping up to be a day almost too dreamy to be real. The realness of it- the zebra’s braying on my right, the dust from a kangaroo’s yard settling under my feet- was the most delightful part.

We fed the kids candy and shelled out coins for some quarter rides before heading home. My son joined his cousins on a tiny carousel ride, the cherry on top of this very sweet Sunday. But in the middle of all this great fortune I felt a cold wind and smelled a foul stink more pungent than any giraffe dung or camel patties. The yuck creeping over this blessed day rolled around and was forever captured by a snap of my sister’s camera.

Dear Sir. Someone needs to tell your face that you’re having the best day ever.

“Merry-Go-Eff-Yourself,” I think this is what my boy’s glare said so clearly. Throughout this most festive visit my toddler managed to remain as consistently furious. There, among hilarious monkeys and amazing sights and carefree circles atop a carousel, this pouty son stayed pissed and peeved. Even in this best place his attitude was the worst.

Of course he was two, and inexplicable bouts of rage and sorrow were to be expected. My  sister assured me he needed a nap. Maybe he’s hungry or thirsty or hot or maybe a little bit of all three my dad suggested. But I’m his mother so I knew the answer. There wasn’t one. No one or twenty things would cure his cranky. He replaced mirth with misery and we best stand a few paces back.

I’m two decades more lived than that child, so I am naturally better adjusted in the ways of counting blessings and correcting poor perspective. I am the perfect picture of gratitude and perpetual happiness.

But last week I found myself in a funk. I was raging and flustered and whimpering and beggy and then back to red-faced fierce and  mad again.

It is too cold and cloudy today. Yesterday was unseasonably warm and sunny. Now I’m convinced this was a trick. That windy bitch, Weather, waited until I found my favorite flip-flops to flip the forecast on me. It’s just a little overcast, a little chilly, most reasonable folks would say. But I can’t fight the furious feeling that I’m freezer burned and being mocked.

There are only re-runs on T.V. I was ready for Real Housewives and now I’m ready to toss tables.

I am putting things away and there are not enough closets and who the hell designed this damn house with its two, tiny dwarf closets? I JUST NEED A PLACE TO STORE THREE VACUUMS & EIGHT BROKEN LAMPS! Currently the lack of storage space feels like it is meant exactly to destroy me. But wasn’t it yesterday when I was so overwhelmed by this big house? Wasn’t I sure that having to dust such huge square footage would surely kill me?

My socks have holes in them. I have other socks, but THESE ones are torn to pieces. I could change socks, but I just need a day to brood about the heel holes. HEEL HOLES!

I was cranky and hungry, so I pigged out. Spent the rest of the afternoon annoyed that I was uncomfortably stuffed.

The last drip of coffee creamer is gone. Sliding down the wall to a tearful heap of mess on the kitchen floor just seems like the logical thing to do.

It’s too cold outside so I crank up the heat. Inside the house I start to sweat. I stand naked in my bathroom with my fists curled and feet ready to stomp. My belly button is somehow still frigid, so I consider giving up because obviously there is no winning.

At this very minute if you handed me a precious pony I would complain that its hair wasn’t dyed pink and french braided to my specifications. I would bitch that you’d brought me said pony but  failed to build me a stable.

Too hot and too cold.

Too clear and too cloudy.

Too starved and too stuffed.

Too late or too early.

Too bored or too busy.

Too much or too little.

It’s a little bit of everything, and  it is only me.

I didn’t read any blogs because there was a chance you might be cheerful. I hate wanting to punch my friends.

I sat down to write many times but my inner voice sounded like a beligerent Eartha Kitt. Mid way through a post on how rude my husband is to get me diamond earrings for Valentine’s Day (thus forcing me to overexert myself and up my standard Card & Candy game), I was so annoyed listening to this whiny hooker  I slammed the laptop shut.

Then I mourned for several minutes, the misfortune of being a blogger with a probably broken computer.

I laughed a few weeks ago at the boy’s picture, the cranky carousel, the perfect juxtaposition of a happy scene and nonsensical sadness. Merry-Go-Nothin’? Please! Two-year-olds? Fools.

Today I’m striving to just act three. I am smiling against my will. I’m going kicking and eye-rolling to a happy place where I don’t dream of wrecking into cars with cartoon family bumper stickers, where I speak the real English instead of growling at strangers, where I pause my petulance for a minute to enjoy the ride. Today I’m remembering I am the lucky brat who gets to feed giraffes and live in the big, big house with tiny, tiny closets. I’m fortunate and attempting to act accordingly. There was a poem I read once and it pretty much went like “Life doesn’t suck [plus some other flowery words]“. It’s true even when I don’t appreciate it.  I’m sipping coffee, accepting a sun that will or will not shine, and  unclenching these spoiled teeth.

I’m a find me a Merry-Go-Something.

What helps you find your way out of a funk?