mama monday: monsters under the bed

I was reading a post by dooce™ recently that had to do with phobias she had as a child.  What really amused me were the 56 comments left by readers answering the question:

Dare I ask — and I may very well regret this — what were you obsessive-compulsive about as a kid?

I remember a little boy I met when I stayed in Ediburgh who must have been about four or five years old.  He was cute as a button but GOONESSGRACIOUS, was he ever obsessive-compulsive.  For about two weeks he developed a habit of coughing.  Not a I'm-sick-and-need-to-remove-phlegm-in-order-to-breathe kind of cough, more of a clearing-of-the-throat kind of cough.  All.  The.  Time.  A friend of mine and I took control of the situation by having him cough into his fist, "drop" the cough into the toilet, and flush it away.  We were successful but undoubtedly unleashed countless more phobias regarding toilets.

My own quirks were reasonable enough.  I heard a story about a woman at our church who had once swallowed a chicken bone and had to have it surgically removed.  Each time we ate chicken I'd inspect each bite with my tongue thoroughly before swallowing and would panic slightly if ever I swallowed something that felt a degree sharper than rigorously masticated chicken meat.  After the meal, if I hadn't died, I figured it was safe to assume I hadn't swallowed a bone.

Other O-C tenancies I began as a child I have yet to outgrow.  I still prefer (although I am mature enough to put the preference aside for the sake of decorum) not to step on the cracks in the sidewalk.  The habit had nothing to do with breaking my mother's back, or any other superstition, but rather some sort of mathematical and rhythmic game.  How many steps could I squeeze into each sidewalk tile before having to avoid a crack?  Would avoidance of said crack slow my walking tempo?  Would a longer stride spare me the crack each time?

If I am completely, utterly alone, I still avoid the cracks even at thirty years of age.

Many of the phobias, superstitions and obsessive habits children acquire are from a well-meaning adult giving them information without proper context.  Germs are a good example of this.  Knowing that tiny, invisible organisms are on your hands at any time and have the ability to make you sick might help children to wash up before dinner, but I doubt their imaginations stop there.

I love parents who exaggerate the silliness and fantasy of scary things, empowering their kids to feel fearless instead of fearful.  My friend Melissa, who is due this week, decorated her infant son's room with monsters.  The result is a bright, colourful room that encourages him to engage in adventure because love will keep him safe.

 

What were some of your phobias growing up?  Were they easy to break out of or did they follow you past childhood?  How were some of the ways your environment inspired you to live fearfully or fearlessly?

 

hints on etiquette

Andrew and I post quotes on our fridge from movies we like. One of them, from Woody Allen's film Manhattan, is: "Really biting satire is always better than physical force."

I'm not the first to write about the recent high-profile outbursts in the news: Serena Williams, Joe Wilson, and now Kanye West. I won't bother explaining each incident since all three have been Trending Topics on Twitter which means there's enough fodder on the world-wide web to educate yourselves.

The fact that all three happened in the same week has become the catalyst in a slew of delicious satire directed at the current state of decorum: here, here, here, and here (the last of which was written by one of my favourite satirical columnists, Maureen Dowd, at the New York Times). George Will of the Washington Post quotes:

We've decided that it is therapeutic to express oneself no matter how coarse one's thoughts, and that whatever is therapeutic is good. I think we're seeing a kind of emotional exhibitionism whereby people say, 'I said something ghastly, but I said it honestly and sincerely.' And honesty, sincerity, and authenticity are self-legitimizing.

In our own, homegrown Globe & Mail this morning, Judith Timson wrote a great article about what she labels "entitlemenia". Like Timson, I agree that private poetic license the stage has been set for public outbursts. Intelligent, witty, and well-phrased (don't even GET me started on grammatical precision) comments are far outweighed by uncouth comments from Twitter to Facebook to YouTube to blogs. Andrew and I were just hypothesizing about how brave most of the commentators would be in person, without a computer and the internet between themselves and their victims. Bravado builds slowly until it ruptures on tennis courts, in congress, or on stage. In a heated moment on stage, it's difficult to curb a foul mouth that has been fed backstage.

Timson writes:

The Internet and the opportunity it provides for everyone and anyone to boldly disseminate their opinions might promote rudeness but it also nurtures democracy and connectedness in a way that Marshall McLuhan never dreamed of when he coined the phrase “global village.” We need to somehow make civility sexy again in this global village.

As I remind Andrew when he feels a bout of brutal honesty coming on: "Just because it's true doesn't mean it has to be said." And when I use profanity casually, to make a point or for jest, he counters with, "You're more intelligent than that."

I'm bringing civility sexy back.