Electrical Outlets

It’s been over a decade since I’ve bothered to write anything on here.  Why did I stop, you may ask?  Keeping up with my blog had become a chore.  I was setting deadlines, then struggling to find enough nonsensical text to post.  On top of that, I had just gotten a new job working for the State and I wasn’t sure how much I was able to divulge about my work.  If I said too much, would they fit me with cement shoes like they had threatened at the new employee orientation?  Wait, they said headset, not cement shoes.  And to think I’ve spent the last decade worrying I’d end up meeting Mr. Hoffa.

I had always wanted to write about my new work environment and the hazards of navigating an endless maze of cubicles.  Tall ones, short ones, even medium ones, all subdividing a series of never-ending dead ends.  It was maddening.  It is maddening!  A decade later and I still find myself wandering around, getting lost, and not knowing where the light switch is.  And the sad part is I’ve been working at home for the last 10 months!

But you and I know that’s not why I’m up writing tonight.  Well, you didn’t, but now you do.  Please do try to keep up.  

It’s about The Girl.  I’m pretty sure I haven’t blogged this story before, seeing as the girl is 11 and this feels like an older-than-a-one-year-old story.  If I’m wrong, then I hope you enjoy a second telling.  At the least, you haven’t heard it in over a decade.

Like I was saying, it’s about The Boy.  I’m a firm believer in "corporal punishment."  Not the over the knee ***-whoopin’ kind because you spilled my beer.  More like the reasonably firm hand slap to impart understanding that a dangerous action may cause pain.

I walked into Andrew’s daycare and was chatting with the teacher.  (I may have told this part of the story before.) 

“You know, Andrew is the only kid in here who doesn’t play with the electrical outlets,” she remarked.

“That’s because he tried once and I slapped his hand.”

Andrew always was a quick learner.

But like I was saying, this story is about The Girl.  The Girl is what you may call a free spirit.  An independent free spirit, if you will.  An independent, lives by her own rules in her own world, free spirit (I mean that in the best way possible.  If you’ve met her you probably understand).

She was the second kid.  I’d done parenting good before.  I knew how to raise a kid.  So, when my roughly two-year-old not surprisingly reached for an outlet one day, I firmly told her “No” and slapped her hand.  I’m pretty sure it was the first hand slap she’d encountered because she pulled back, sitting up with a startled expression on her face.  I could see the gears in her head turning, processing this new concept.  I waited for the tears to fall, for the lesson to be learned.  Instead, she raised her hand and slapped me back.

I don’t think she thought it was a game.  I think she wanted to let me know she wasn’t going to put up with being told what she could and couldn’t do.  She’d survived the NICU, she could take care of  her own damn self.  She needed to teach me a lesson.

Anna was never one to back down from a little discomfort, a challenge, or the brunt force of reality.  She learns lessons through exploration and discovery.  A hand slap never taught her to fear some greater danger; those lessons only took hold when accompanied by a look of disappointment on Daddy’s face.  That brought her crumbling to the ground.  Which was great, because then I could grab her up, hug her tightly, and lovingly explain whatever lesson I thought she needed to learn. 

It is taking me a while to learn the lessons my daughter has been teaching me.  Learning often requires a little pain and a little disappointment.  I guess they both take after me.