Proverbs 23, Verses 13 & 14
"Don't fail to correct your children; discipline won't hurt them!
They won't die if you use a stick on them!
Punishment will keep them out of hell."
Punishment will keep them out of hell."
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CHIPPED WISDOM:
Hi! Have we met before? I think we have. You might remember me as "that callous, needle-dicked fuck who blogs while wearing earbuds so he can't hear his two year old daughter screaming like a soon-to-be-murdered housecat in the next room".
Currently, Antonio Salieri's Symphony in D Major, "Il Giorno Onomastico", is blasting its way through the circuitous paths of my ear canals, and my head is slightly throbbing, and I like it. Sometimes the violins and the horns are so fucking loud it's like my ears can see stars. Of course, every time it goes all mezzo piano on me, I can still hear her, which sucks. It's cognitive dissonance for sure. I have no doubt that children this age weren't allowed to hear live music at concert halls in Vienna, and if they were, and one started acting out like this, they'd bayonet it.
Lord knows we tried everything. My wife went up first, to shush and soothe. To hug and hold. Then, after I successfully unclogged the Danube-esque kitchen sink, it was my turn to try my hand at nurturing in the nursery. I tried the "reset" method; repeat the pre-bedtime ritual-- the books, the cuddles, the night-time song, the tucking the covers in, the whole bit. My son bought it last week, hook, line, and snorer. It worked, and I felt like a hero.
My daughter, though? She didn't bite. Right now, it sounds like someone's biting her. Right now, it's Mozart's Symphony No. 39 in E-flat Major, K 453. Oh, Pandora-- thou doth have a sense of humor!
Perhaps you would not have pegged me for the kind of guy who could engage in a relentlessly narcissistic and self-indulgent pursuit like blogging while his beloved daughter is howling at the moon, tears streaming down her face less than 5 feet away behind a closed door in a dark room, and, to be honest, I wouldn't have thought I was that guy either, but, apparently, I am. And I don't particularly like admitting that to you.
Then again, maybe I do. Maybe that is what I like. Maybe I like exposing my wretched, fetid underbelly to you and point to it energetically, shining a light on all that is foul and mean and cruel, to let you know what an easily manipulated dumbass you are for thinking better of me.
To teach you a lesson. To let you know that you really don't know. That nobody knows.
To teach you a lesson. To let you know that you really don't know. That nobody knows.
I can tell myself it's okay. That she's just overtired and she has to cry it out so she can go to sleep. That no amount of re-sets or snuggling or goodnight moon is going to do the trick, she just has to knock herself the fuck out. After, you know, whomever's biting her is done doing that. But, I don't know-- isn't there always something else? Something else to try? Shouldn't I hold her until she collapses? But, if I do that, as soon as her back even touches that mattress, no-- as soon as she feels her weight shift as I contemplate putting her down, the siren will sound again, the lambs shall scream and scream and scream loud enough to wake the dead night watchman in his pine box. And we'll have to start all over again. And it'll be 11 o'clock by then.
And we'll all be fucked. My daughter, my wife, Salieri, Wolfgang, and I. Mediocrities everywhere, I absolve you. I am their champion. I am their patron saint. I am the father of all fatherly fuck ups. Even Father Duffy. He was a-full-a-shit.
Mozart got quiet for a second. She's still going.
ff
That's a music joke!
HA!
AND EVERYTHING IS GOING FINE!
(Unless you're my next-door neighbor, that is. She's probably calling the police right now. Fortunately, her Cambodian or Vietnamese or whatever the fuck she is accent is so thick they won't be able to understand the address and they probably won't come.)
I heard on the radio recently that, when people used to talk about "Bach", they were talking about "C.P.E. Bach", not "Johann Sebastian Bach", which is who people nowadays are talking about when they say "Bach." He didn't really explain how that happened, how one Bach became a different Bach, how one eclipsed the other and how nobody really gives a shit about Carl Philly E-Dawg, and all I can think of when I think about that is: did either of those powder-headed, stocking-assed motherfuckers have daughters and how the hell did they deal with it when their daughters were two and were exploding their lungs all over their nursery ceilings?
They must have drank. They must have drank a real. fucking. lot.
Oh, who am I kidding? They composed in some villa somewhere while some hired village wench dealt with their offspring. And everything was going fine. Because they still drank a real fucking lot.
I'm listening to some jubilant shit by Domenico Cimarosa now. It's not nearly loud enough for these present purposes. I mean, there's a refrain that's pretty loud, but then it gets quiet and I have to wait for the refrain to repeat itself before it drowns out the unChristly sounds my daughter is making from inside her crib.
Maybe it's just the chair he's sitting in, but he looks like a fucking stuffed porpoise.
I shouldn't be making fun, but, honestly? To me he looks like a guy who never put a crazy two-year-old girl to sleep, so he doesn't get much respect from me. Besides, Cinnamon Roll: you in my house. Now, play: and make it forte like SHIT, motherfucker.
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