Play It Again, Sahm

I don’t get it. But I heard that you weren’t very good with humor, so that’s probably why.

Hannah

Before our Beloved Moderator puts an end to this conversation, I just wanted to let everyone know I found the source of our stink problem. Hannah’s comment about the tuna fish sandwiches at her school gave me an idea.

We live in an older house with old-fashioned air ducts. Big enough for food to be shoved through. I had Tristan check the ductwork when he got home this evening, and sure enough, there’s so much old food rotting in one of the ducts that we could start our own compost pile.

At first, I figured Seamus did it. Almost any trouble in our family is a direct result of that boy. But the duct connects to Duri’s room. Duri is one of the children we adopted from Ethiopia about fifteen months ago. We asked him if he knew anything about the food in the duct, and at first he said no.

We showed him the food. He stared at it like he’d never seen it before. Then he said something about “That’s not my food. I’m saving my food.”

To make a very long story about an even longer, depressing evening short, it comes down to this:

Duri has started hoarding food. He sneaks it to his room and shoves it down the air vent.

I don’t get it! We feed him plenty! And there’s always snacks available. I know he and his sister didn’t have much to eat in the orphanage, but they’ve been with us over a year. Why would he suddenly start doing this?

I don’t think he even knows why. He doesn’t even connect his actions with the pile of food in the duct. He says he’s not hungry, and he has plenty to eat. I don’t think he’s really even aware of what he’s doing.

And to make matters worse, Seamus is mad at me now for accusing him of doing it. And he’s mad because we didn’t punish Duri. But I don’t think Duri was trying to be naughty. It’s not the same, but Seamus doesn’t understand.

I’m going to have to call our doctor in the morning and maybe see about taking Duri to a psychologist. I’m more than a little freaked out. And we’re going to have to get our ducts cleaned out.

But after that—what am I going to do? I don’t want to become the Food Police, but we can’t let him hoard food like that. What if he’d eaten it later? He’d make himself sick.

All right, Ros—you got me. I’m answering your TOTW. Apparently, I DON’T KNOW HOW TO MEET MY KIDS’ NEEDS! Otherwise, Duri wouldn’t be stuffing food down the air vents, and Seamus wouldn’t be glaring at me as if I’d betrayed him.

Z

How can I meet the needs of the Angel Child when I can’t even meet my own needs? The poetry that used to flow from me has been replaced by a steady stream of milk that never seems to satisfy a growing boy. He’s growing—but am I? I feel like the host of a parasite— I’m providing nourishment by having the life sucked from me.

I want to write! I want to create. I know the Angel Child should be my greatest poetry, but it’s a poem that drains me. I need something that will refresh my soul so I can keep giving.

In other news, Francine—the homeless woman we tried to help—has gone back to selling her body to buy meth. She was a stay-at-home mom for over twenty years. And I can’t help but wonder if someday that will be me—used up, empty, hopeless.

Whoa! That’s a thought. In fact, I think it might be a poem! I think I’ll call it “Weaning.” Thank God for dark, depressing thoughts! Life has been way too cheerful recently, and I’ve had absolutely no inspiration.

I must be off to my writing corner. Angel Child is sleeping. Maybe I’ll be extra blessed by him waking up crying. The inner turmoil that creates in me is fantastic for truly tortured emotions!

Iona James

Are you INSANE? If you want turmoil and pain, I’ll be glad to send you some from our household. I understand your creative drive, but, dear one—you should be glad your baby is healthy, and that there’s only one “angel child” to drain your energy. You’re not going to end up on the street unless you choose to be there. Can’t you find inspiration in a less masochistic way?

Rosalyn Ebberly

“The wise woman builds her house, but the foolish tears it down with her own hands.” Proverbs 14:1 (NASB)

You killed it. You killed my poem. It was there, ready to be poured out on the page in all its raw glory. But now it’s gone, slaughtered by your optimistic good sense. First truly promising burst of inspiration I’ve had in weeks. Dead. My poetry, killed by your happy prose. That’s tragic.

In fact…this might work out even better. How about a song called “When the Poetry Dies”? Ooohhh…thanks, Rosalyn, for the inspiration.

But do not e-mail me again, for at least…a few hours! You’re not depressed and twisted enough. You’ll jeopardize the entire work!

Iona James

How dare she say I’m not depressed enough! When she’s been through what I’ve been through, THEN let her accuse me of having “optimistic good sense”! And “happy prose”? I’m insulted! I am in a very delicate mental condition. What does she know about it anyway?

Poets and their need for tortured angst. So annoying.

Ros

“The wise woman builds her house, but the foolish tears it down with her own hands.” Proverbs 14:1 (NASB)

Well, sis, you’re certainly twisted enough.

Veronica

Hey Iona,

I just wanted to see if you got that thing written. If not, don’t read any more of this e-mail because it’s supposed to be encouraging! :)

Listen, I know it’s hard to do creative stuff when the kids are little. I’m an artist, too, not that you’d know it recently. But it sounds like you’re doing the right thing—grabbing the time and the inspiration as it comes. It won’t be like this forever. Almost, but not quite forever.