I watch Supernanny. I’m fascinated by the tantrums of wealthy brats. And seeing spoiled kids learn manners is fun, too! While checking on Hulu to see if there were any new episodes up (there weren’t) I came across this little gem in a discussion about co-sleeping:
“My son at about age 5 began having Night Terrors if I tried to place him in his own room he invariably ended up on my floor sometime during the night. He’d be chilled and cranky. Allowing him in my bed was a better solution for us. At about 15 he moved to a pallet on the floor beside my bed. At 17 he began sleeping in his own room. As for the showering alone, consciousness of his own body, dressing himself etc.. those milestones came at the normal ages. It was only at bedtime that he needed help keeping away the terrors. Today he’s 24, on his own, healthy and happy. Sleeping in my bed helped, it didn’t hurt.
Funniest damn thing I’ve read in a long, long time.
The Viking has the memory of an elephant. I have the memory of a heavily drugged lemur. (I don’t know if lemurs actually suffer from memory loss, but it’s the first animal that came to mind since I just watched this video). My memory is emotional, his is actual. What I mean by this is that he remembers facts and details very well, whereas I am highly attuned to my (and others’) emotional responses to whatever was happening. This is a common human phenomenon, but we seem to take it to the extreme. I am regularly astounded by the things he remembers. I’d give you examples, but I have forgotten.
Last night, the roles were reversed. I remembered something that he did not. Which in my mind meant one of two things: either I had gone crazy and I made it up or he had gone crazy, which was far worse. I was not terribly pleased with either possible outcome. Full disclosure: I’m medicated now, and discovering the effects of the medication has been So Much Fun. For instance, (sidenote alert!) did you know that a side effect of Prozac is that it may cause suicidal thoughts? And by “may” I mean, “will cause one to lock oneself in a dark bathroom sobbing hysterically while plotting own demise”. Thankfully I was with the Viking when this happened and he coaxed me out of the darkness. Crisis averted. I frequently tell him that he’s better than Jesus. Mostly because (TMI!!!) Jesus never gave me an orgasm. (It’s okay to say stuff like that if I put “TMI” before it, right? Right).
Anyway, meds. After the trauma of the aforementioned episode, I was pleasantly surprised that I woke up yesterday feeling well-rested and calm for the first time in months and months. I had a weird, slightly out-of-body experience of looking in the mirror yesterday and thinking, that person looks happy then, I look happy. Amazing what drugs can do! In the future, I’ll be saying Yes! Adamantly. In the evening, I was feeling calm and cheerful and weirdly normal (yes, that is possible), the Viking and I were watching random, funny videos online and all was well, that is until I showed him one particular video. A few days ago, he told me about a comedian who told a joke about how grenades were better than guns for home defense. He couldn’t remember the comedian, so I was excited when I came across this clip:
All well and good, right? Except, he didn’t remember telling me that joke. At all. This is a man who remembers random facts about squids because he once watched a Discovery Channel special on them (see, I did come up with an example!). But the grenade joke? Not a clue. At first I thought he was teasing me, but it soon became obvious that he really did not remember. I became distressed. I recounted in great detail how we had been sitting on the couch when he told me this joke. We were watching Jon Stewart, I said, but it was a commercial break. We were sitting on the couch. You told me the grenade joke. WHY DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE GRENADE JOKE?! We were sitting RIGHT THERE. Pointing. Hysterics. Tearing of hair. The Boy still did not remember.
Why? Because I made it up. Utter fabrication.
Not the joke. My good friend Ryan told me the joke sometime last week, and my delusional brain misattributed it to the Boy and made up a whole scenario where this imaginary conversation took place. I texted Ryan this morning and he confirmed that yes, he did in fact tell me the grenade joke. Part of me is concerned by this, but mostly I’m relieved. The Boy remains non-delusional and if I’m ever in a situation where I need to plead Not Guilty By Reason of Insanity, I now have documentation to back up my claim. Besides, I’ll take “Making Shit Up” Crazy over “Sobbing in the Bathroom” Crazy any day. Hooray for Prozac.
