As a person who errs on the side of cynicism and who possesses a strong sense of how the world is supposed to work based on the rules of common courtesy, it's not surprising that I find myself frequently in the presence of at least one nemesis. Most of the time, my nemeses do not even know that they are the target of my loathing and inner stink-eye, which is probably best because if they knew, things would probably come to blows, and someone would end up in prison. We all know that "someone" would be me.
There are times, however, when my nemesis is not a person. A few years ago, it was a robin. This robin decided that his reflection in my sliding glass door was either a nemesis of his own or a potential mate. Either way, that bird started crashing into my window at 7 every morning and didn't quit until 7 at night. I assume that's when the birdie bars opened, and he went to drown his sorrows in a nice, crisp microbrew. The sound of the robin's song still makes me twitch. It speaks to the blackest parts of my soul, and while it hails the coming of spring to many people, it only sounds like misery and defeat to me. Plus, the robins don't migrate from the Pacific Northwest, so they're not really a sign of spring or anything particularly special out here.
Some nemeses have a more permanent status in my life. My dogs definitely hold this honor. Their foul breath, incessant cheerfulness, and atomic farts are enough to drive me to insanity. Their need to have attention lavished upon them from sunrise to sunset while simultaneously messing up my house and eating garbage when my back is turned will keep them in permanent nemesis status until the day. they. die. They're as bad as my kids, but since I didn't grow and birth them, I don't feel especially attached. And because I have kids who seem to like the dogs, I let the beasts stay because that's the kind of loving and unselfish mother that I am.
My current nemesis is neither human nor creature. It's my son's yellow rubber ball. I can see it from where I'm sitting and writing. It's staring at me in the most snide and mocking way. Yes, staring. I haven't gone so far as drawing a face on the blasted thing, but I am so convinced that it is an evil cousin of the famous Wilson that I may as well.
My relationship with the ball started out innocently enough. I saw it in the store and was seized by a moment of adoration and generosity, picturing my little man's face when he saw the beautiful rubber sphere. Although his collection of balls could rival an NBA player's, I just thought he needed one more. It's worthy to note that these fits come when I'm shopping alone. My children are so much cuter and deserving of spontaneous gifts when I'm away from them.
Ever since that ball entered my house, it has invaded my life. It's always there. It's never away. It lurks in corners, waiting to trip me when my peripheral vision is compromised. I hate that ball. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I tell my little man to put it away fifteen times a day. He acquiesces to my requests, but somehow, the ball never stays put away. It is either full of little minions or the incarnation of someone I wronged in a past life sent back to kill me.
Why don't you just throw it away, Natalie? Well, there are a couple of reasons.
1. I'm terrified to throw it away because I have a suspicion that it will somehow just make its way back into my house. I'm on the brink of insanity as it is, and a feat like that would push me into the deep. Even if the ball didn't find its way back, I am quite positive it would haunt me with a "bounce, bounce, bounce" sound, much like the Tell Tale Heart. I don't have time for that.
2. I feel as though that ball, as much as I loathe it, represents one of my very last shreds of compassion. I hate clutter, and I have thrown out so many of my children's toys over the years. That ball, with its nefarious travel patterns, deserves the trash, but my son loves it so very much. To keep the ball is to show my son that I love him despite the inconveniences he brings into my life. If I throw it away, I'll cease to be a good(ish) person and may as well go on a crime spree, like, kidnapping frogs or throwing recyclables into people's compost bins. *shudder*
So, you see, I'm trapped. I'm trapped by this yellow ball, so cheerful and so wicked. To get rid of it is choosing a life of bleak inhumanity or insanity. To keep it is to risk my neck. My only choice is to wait for Little T to outgrow his love of the ball or for one of the dogs to pop it.
For the record, if the dogs did pop it, they'd still maintain permanent nemesis status. They will have broken my son's heart.
The yellow ball. Devious, evil, complicated nemesis.
No comments:
Post a Comment