My Own Child

I have my own little boy. So why the hell would I want to watch another child, another FEW children, particularly when they're all goddamn little brats?

My boy isn't an angel, though he looks like one, and I'll be the first to admit that. But he's no brat either. He's been given proper discipline (though may the wrath of a thousand pissed-off gods befall me again -- and MINE were only negligent --- if I ever raise a hand to him, though that isn't to say that one or two well-placed and well-timed smacks off the rear-end don't happen now and then) and proper structure in his life. I don't need maladjusted whiny snots in my life -- that's why I'm not raising my son that way.

So, Astrid decided bonding time would be to visit other Olympic-acquaintances with children around our darling's age. Well, that meant "we" were considered baby-sitters. And by then, Astrid was so wrapped up in whatever she was doing (I think it's the Mt.Olympus paging system, though I haven't quite gotten the hang of it) that *I* was the one solely responsible for four children, my own, and the other goddamn whining screaming three. So much for fucking bonding time. Not to mention the fact that by the time Astrid's asshole relations decided to return and take "responsibility" for THEIR children (meaning that they deemed it acceptable to be in the same room), they criticised me for the way I watch them, and then scolded ME for disciplining them.

We can all figure out how that shit went down with me.

For bloody-hell's sake --- if you're not going to goddamn watch your miserable clodpole children, do the world a favour and don't have them which would otherwise give the world more neglected spoiled brats and continue to ensure that your Gene of Idiocy gets passed down along the rotting family tree.

Oh, and did I mention that they kept saying "do this" and "do that" any time ANY of them decided to speak to me? Why didn't they just snap their fingers at me, carry a whip and nail my hand to the door when I didn't open it for them quickly enough?!?!?!?! So sorry, bastards. I don't wear your fucking chains anymore and I don't take your fucking orders. And if my sweet boy hadn't been there, I would have told you where to go and what to do once you got there.

I like children. There's something so innocent about them that is impossible to replicate with an adult. We've seen too much, felt too much, hate and fear too much. But these nasty little worms ruined it for me.

Or perhaps it's the parents. They really are the ones to blame: negligent, permissive and enabling. They don't watch their children, don't discipline them, don't care enough to do it, though I would hope that they love them. It's a bad world out there -- always has been harsh and punishing, in every age I've seen. Why don't people do what's best for their kids? Selfishness? They ought to be ashamed of themselves.

On a lighter note, my dreams have gone from reliving the past to complete and utter oddity. Either way, it's a kind of horror.

What a couple of days this has been....

Alive

I don't know what the hell you've all been up to. In fact, I don't want to know, so don't go and comment on this thread saying "Oh Z, I've been sooooooo like, you know, um, busy! Doing this and this and this and that and..."

The above will only earn you a permanent ignore and if I cared enough, I'd see that your sorry ass was kicked to hell.

But I don't care enough.

Now that we've got that settled....


I'm keeping my life together. Astrid doesn't quite have her head on straight, and I suppose she never really did, but she's just going to have to pull things together for herself. I've tried. But I can't play nursemaid to her. I've got a child who needs ONE of us to be there for him. Just because he's got two screwed up parents doesn't mean he needs to suffer for it.

We've patched things up sort-of. It's working out. We're not throwing the wall decorations at each other.

I take the child to the studio often. He's painting -- with his hands. He gets great joy putting little orange and green hand prints on everything. And he plays with my little carvings which I do mostly for his enjoyment. But he's forbidden from clay. He eats most of it. To see it, you'd think we starve him.

He's taken to calling me "Fyothe" which, according to him, means "Daddy" in some language that I don't know. He keeps me going even when I don't want to.

On a light note, I took Astrid and Child to Central Park for a hansom ride. I think they enjoyed it. Little One was more enamoured with the horse than anything the Park had to show him. And when it was done, he sat on my shoulders and spoke the to driver and pet the horse, switching in and out of his languages, though he kept remembering it was English for most people now and when he'd slip with the driver, he'd translate and continue in his intelligent babble.

When we were done with the Park, I asked him if he thought it was nice and he looked at me oddly and said, "You know. You were there" in Greek. He's too smart for me. How did I father this little thing?

Sometimes I wonder if I would have been anything like him had I had the advantages he does. Probably not. I was never so clever or so intelligent. I don't know what he gets from me except his dark hair. He should be grateful from my lack of contribution, I suppose.