My secret fantasy

I don't spend a lot of time imagining. I'm not a very imaginative person, have little to no appreciation for fantasy novels or sci-fi or strange hidden worlds with small people who may or may not be winged... I don't even play the lottery. Never have.

And yet, every now and then, my mind steals away to a little dream of mine. The dream used to come to me each time I was planning a move in my old, single days (I used to move quite a lot—apparently I tire easily of living arrangements). Nowadays, this dream usually occurs when I've found a bulky piece of furniture I want from a craigslist seller or in the IKEA as-is room. The happy dream may come to me when I'm yearning to rearrange the living room yet again, and I'm weary of dragging heavy, unyielding items across the floor. It creeps into my mind when I'm eying large yard ornaments or second-hand swingsets for my boy.

What's the dream, you ask? Why, that I'm a big, burly, not necessarily intelligent man with much strength.

A strange fantasy, you think? Well, think of it this way: I despise dependence. I try and try to be independent, self-sufficient, a strong and capable independently functioning unit. And then, I am stopped short by a base need for brutish abilities. Some task arises that I am simply inadequate to perform. I need to lift great weights, or unscrew a screw that's been put in place years ago by a much stronger person. Perhaps I just need to work on something up high, and I realize that the step stool will not even nearly suffice for my measly vertical stretch.

It's a frustrating life for a short, weak person with the agenda of a hulk.

I imagine not only the joys of being able to lift that bale and tote that load, but also the sheer glee of being able to touch ceilings and door-frames without assistance. What heady delight one must feel while hoisting something huge or loosening a tightly turned bolt. How invigorating and empowering it must be to do that sort of thing for oneself, without a single sniveling request, manipulation, or trade-off. Oh, to be the one to whom others must humble themselves when the job requires big and powerful; to be the begged, instead of the begger.

Not to mention the absolute rush I'd get just standing in a crowd and overseeing the tops of heads instead of the less-than-glamorous views of chins and nostrils.

I don't think I'd really need too much in the brains department. Incredible bulk is sort of like beauty, I believe—in the end, when technology fails, it'll be the large, strong men and beautiful women who remain. Unless nuclear clouds erupt and reduce us all to cockroach treats, those two groups will always prosper, because they will always be revered and honored.

The small, feeble idea people? Not a lot of reverence or honor coming our way. Ever. Not that I'm bitter.

BIG time=changing standards?

It’s time for a brief rant from Mel. (And believe it or not, this is brief for me.)

**********
Vehicles have become silly large. Have you noticed?

Rumor has it that car size was originally based on the width of a wagon. Since cars needed to utilize the same routes that wagons did, the first cars looked a lot like a motorized wagon. People likely had less to carry in vehicles back then, because most people had not yet become obsessed consumers and collectors of crap—most of them had not the means, nor very much crap available to purchase and hoard. There was no need to haul your world around with you, because you stayed at home most of the time, unless you were wealthy, in which case you had several homes and a fleet of poor people to move your stuff for you.

But I’m getting off track—that’s not the focus for today. I’d like to focus on the sheer size, the monstrosity, the ludicrously gargantuan aspect of many of today’s motor vehicles.

The humongous nature of many American vehicles would be problematic enough, what with minute parking places and skinny lanes and low bridges and the sort. But what makes them even more dangerous is the fact that often, they are driven by diminutive ladies who cannot see out of them properly. And who may or may not be trying to talk on the phone and sip a macchiato while they steer that boat.

I don’t mean to sound sexist; why would I do that? I AM a woman, for cryin’ out loud. But I am short, and I know I am short, and I choose to drive a small car that rides quite low to the ground. How many times have I seen a female head peering out from behind a steering wheel of a behemoth? On how many occasions have I witnessed these cuties struggling to park their big killing machines? How often have I been narrowly missed by a big ol’ bumper because the pretty little driver couldn’t see over the vehicle’s frame to spot me?

I know, I know—kids’ car seat regulations demand bigger vehicles than we used to have. I also realize that bigger cars are safer, and higher, and less prone to being destroyed on impact like my tiny car. And honestly, some people are perfectly capable of driving these homes on wheels, and doing it well. But many such drivers are not equipped to handle these giants on the road. This fact, and the danger it brings, can only be exacerbated by the reality that driving alongside the monsters are tiny counterparts like Minis and Smart Cars and the like. How can these bitty rides share the road with SUVs—piloted by distracted and caffeinated midgets, mind you—that are modeled after an off-road wartime transport machine instead of a horse-drawn box?

So what’s the answer? And it’s not a simple answer, because This Is America, and we like stuff B I G and we don’t care it if sucks up gasoline and that’s our right as piggish consumers, by golly! Okay, okay. Un-bundle your undies and take a breath; yes, I get frustrated with huge gas-guzzlers and their defenders in general—but that’s a rant for another post. Here’s a thought: How about re-testing drivers periodically? How about forcing drivers to re-test in the car they’ll actually be driving? And how about outlawing cell phones while operating a vehicle? Maybe we could re-test drivers more frequently if they insist on driving vehicles that top 2 tons. Or, even better, try this: How about coming up with another class of license? In addition to the CDL, we could have the HSUL (Hulking Sport Utility License) and perhaps even the BPUL (Behemoth Pick-Up License). If that sounds ridiculous, then consider how many people are proponents of testing elderly drivers more often; are you not at least equally threatened by smaller and/or less capable drivers who can’t see well enough from large vehicles to be fully informed behind the wheel?

I know it’s everyone’s choice to choose the vehicle they drive. But too many choices have both improved vehicle safety and performance, and also have forced us into this insane world where a Vespa scooter and a Hummer and a semi with full trailer load can all share the same highways. To top that off, prosperity in our society has given us money to burn on gasoline and frothy drinks and technology. And the crazy thing is that no one thinks that’s crazy.

And hey—feel free to remind me of my spewing here if I ever turn up driving something just slightly smaller than an RV.

Getting so big…sort of

Last week was a long, painful one. It was potty training boot camp here at our home. It was not fun. It needed to happen, the time was right, but fun was not had. The whole experience has reminded me, though, of how we humans resist change—especially change that involves growth.

We played hardball with the boy, and simply talked about the merits of underpants for several days, warned him that there were no more diapers after Sunday, etc. And then, we started putting him in tiny tighty whities. Well, not whities, exactly—there were small Thomas the Trains emblazoned on them, so they weren’t all white. But you get the idea.

Of course, I did a lot of laundry during those days. I covered the upholstered furniture with sheets and blankets. We had an encore viewing of Elmo’s Potty Time, a lovely instructional DVD that a neighbor passed to us after their youngest had mastered the art. And we talked about potties. And pee. And the other. Endlessly. After a couple of days of being stuck at home in wet clothes, the kid’s incredibly strong, stubborn will began to break. There were touch-and-go successes, and then more successes than failures. And then, number 1 was accomplished. We haven’t slipped up with number 1 for almost a week. Number 2? Another story. He still prefers to sneak off somewhere and do what he shouldn’t. We’ll keep working on it.

But what was most difficult about the week, and continues to be difficult, is my son’s sudden and suffocating need for me. All the time. Constantly. I used to be able to run downstairs for a few minutes to do laundry, check email, clean cat litter, and he’d be fine, singing to himself, talking with his toys, whatever. No longer. Now, if I’m out of his sight for a moment, he starts calling for me. He finds reasons to “need” me:

“Mama, come see how cute my animals are. Mama. MAMA!”

“Mommy, help me build baseball stadium out of Duplos. Mama, come here!”

“Where are you, Mama? Come in my room! Please!?”

He’s suddenly incapable of entertaining himself, even for a minute. It’s been making me crazy. And I didn’t get it, couldn’t see why this is happening, why he’s regressing in this area. I only knew I wanted to poke my eyes out. Many times. More times than I had eyes.

And then I thought about it, and I think I understand. He’s made this giant step—a step toward bigness, a step that undeniably moves him away from babyhood. We keep talking up the big kid idea, trying to glamorize it. And he’s not stupid; kids are pretty good at reading between the lines. If we’re making such a big deal about it, then being a big kid must not be all good. There must be a price to pay for independence from diapers.

So, he’s clinging to his mom. He’s taking that big-boy step in one area, but he’s still holding tightly to Mom in other areas. Yeah, Thomas undies are cool, but being a little boy is cool, too. Going to the dinosaur museum was great! But staying home and snuggling on the couch watching “Arthur” is nothing to sneeze at.

And aren’t we the same way? Change?! What!? No! I like things the way they are! I like my dirty, stinky pants! I don’t want to be clean and dry and mature! What’s so great about growing up? If it’s so wonderful, then how come people are so crazy about babies and little kids? Aren’t they just jealous? You know it!

Change and growth are tough, even when they’re in our best interest. Thank goodness there are dinosaur museums, and carousels, and roller coasters to tempt little boys to use the potty. Thank goodness that as adults, we can look back over our biggest life changes and see how they’ve stretched us, expanded us, made us stronger and better than we used to be. If we choose to see things that way, perhaps we can begin to embrace change for the catalyst to improved conditions that it often is.

Perhaps. Or perhaps we'll just find a quiet corner and happily soil ourselves.