Saturday morning, up at 5:45 AM. Watching random videos on YouTube from 70s rockers, while the baby watches scary tow trucks and other truck cartoons. A large, poopy diaper is changed after we eat breakfast. He wants my attention, and I’m not really giving it to him. He doesn’t want my help with building puzzles and block towers. He’s a very stubborn, independently-minded little boy. He throws tantrums when he can’t figure something out, but he still doesn’t want my help.
I would love to share something like Indiana Jones with him, but he is still learning to hold his attention span for more than 15 minutes to watch a movie like Cars. Whatever information you get from other people about how quickly kids grow up is never complete. There are these day-to-day periods that last four weeks or even months where nothing seems to change, and then, suddenly it does, and another developmental stage has arrived. Of course, I am constantly inclined to think that my son is behind other kids his age, or much more advanced. It is easier to believe that you have an exceptional son, be he really smart or really not smart, than to conclude that perhaps you have an average, or slightly above average kid. I suppose my parents did the same thing with me, and it was up to me to discover just how average I am.
On mornings like this one, I am barely feeling alive. I suspect that the sleeping aid plays some part of this. But also, I wonder just how much more brain energy/self energy I have left to sustain me to work toward a delayed retirement. When I don’t have the opportunity to go back and catch a 30 min recharge nap, I feel like I never completely wake myself up. I am going to be dragging and falling farther and farther behind throughout the day. Is it time to stop taking the sleep aid? Probably. But, every time I stop taking it, I tend to be up all throughout the night. I don’t fall asleep until I’ve laid in bed for an hour or more, and then I wake up in two hours, and am restless ever after.
But, I should probably just abandon most of my daily pursuits that have become more like vices and infantile dependencies, ending last with my coffee. If I were back out and running more, then some of the lingering unspent energy would be taken care of. If I were eating better, then I probably wouldn’t be on such a roller coaster ride with all the sugar and salt taking my mind and body up and down, up and down.
Such are the things that point toward how unexceptional I really am. I just wasn’t built to be the proverbial self-abusing, shot-in-the-dark young prodigy–Lord knows I’m fifteen years out now from the time when such a thing would manifest itself. I have no real interest in writing a screenplay like Billy Bob Thornton, and breaking into showbiz in my forties. But, a lot of the old self still hangs around thinking that he might suddenly have a chance to be of use in the world of entertainment or exciting, hip people who tell the rest of the Western world what is relevant or not.
That is the self that thinks he can get away with childlike temper tantrums, and drink too much beer, and get lost in online videos and movies–watching 70s rockers and dreaming of being some kind of American Idol singer who wows and impresses everyone with his vocal stylings. Meanwhile, the scratchy, graying beard and head remind me that I am, on the surface to those people who judge books by their covers, about as old as some of these 70s rockers.
I wouldn’t be opposed to a radical transformation of myself, even at the age of 40, almost 41. A radical transformation that sees so much of the continued dependence upon bullshit to sustain me to go away. In that light, I should probably also stop writing until I actually have something interesting to say, instead of just spilling out my thoughts in hopes that something interesting will eventually pop out.