See monkeys

There are so many myths of perfection out there:
perfect health, the perfect marriage, the perfect job, perfect breasts, the perfect salad.

All of them suck. Except the perfect salad. Anything food related can be perfect, because then "perfect" means "highly pleasurable", which is exactly what food should be.

It is what all of those things should be, but my vision of perfection for each of the others is too sanitary, too unrealistic.

I started that playful parenting book I mentioned before. I've only gotten through the introductory chapter, but I'm liking what I see. It made me feel better about, well about being a goofwad in general. In particular it cast a new light on the time I made Anonybabe laugh by fake crying when she would "offer" me food and then pull it back at the last minute. The real belly laughs it elicited made me uneasy, and I thought, should I be encouraging this? Laughing at another person's pain? Albeit a very hammy and obviously fake pain?

Apparently I should. Supposedly it allows her to vent steam about always being the one from whom things are taken at will. This book postulates that apart from being fun, play is an incredibly healing way to help kids overcome and sort through their bad feelings. A Pan's Labyrinth therapy, if you will. Through fantasy, and sometimes an ugly, life-mirroring fantasy, the kid (or adult) can start to feel in control and confident again.

I'm a little perturbed that my first instinct was and probably will be to sanitize Anonybabe's play. Long ago, Anonyhub asked me what motivated me deep down. He thought it was funny when I answered, "You mean other than guilt and fear?" and then couldn't get much further. So that tells you a little something about how we were raised. It'll be hard to shake the shame-mongering monkey on our backs, but there's something about this idea of play that has promise.

Letting Anonybabe spend her first year in our bed was my first follow-my-heart parenting technique.

Making a religion out of joy and play seems to by my second.

I was hoping to get more of these clear cues from my gut than one per year, but I suppose I should be happy any of them are getting past those monkeys. Guilt and shame can run a mean defense.