If this was under my son's bed, we'd move.
          It is Tuesday of Everyday Crazy week here at CoupleDumb and, apparently, there is a tiger under our sons’ bed. Is it bad that we didn’t try to disagree with this idea? After all, the tiger kept the little bastard in bed.


          Paul says: When our three-year-old son came out of his bedroom an hour after bedtime with a story of the tiger that was lurking under his bed, my first reaction was ‘don’t be ridiculous. That’s where the monsters sleep’. Like a good dad, I brought my son back into his room, flipped on the lights, and began to search under the bed for the tiger. As I bent down to demonstrate the safety of the area, every horror movie ever made came flashing through my mind. I found my heart racing a little, not because of a tiger (there simply was not enough room under the bed for a whole tiger) but because of the very real possibility of demon clowns ala Poltergeist.  


          I do not know that being rational in the face of fear helps. When it comes to our everyday crazy, those little fears, not the big life stopping phobias, can become something that we can’t seem to shake. Sometimes we do not want to blow off the fear since it can be fun. I site Steven King and rollercoasters as example. My dilemma always comes from trying to explain this to the kids. Finally, I realized that I can’t. Enjoying fear only comes when we have control.  Before you hop onto a rollercoaster, even without an engineering degree, every person does a little mental stress analysis on the construction material and assesses the built-in redundancies.


          Unfortunately, kids do not have that available. Both of my boys are still in that ‘magical thinking’ developmental stage. Where I knew that there was no tiger under the bed, mainly because the clearance between floor and bed is about 7 inches, my three year old was not so convinced since magic tigers can fit anywhere. And, truth be told, I did not know that there was no tiger. What I knew was that compressed tiger held no danger for me.


          If my son was going to be the cutest little dipshit in the universe then he was going to be an unafraid cute little dipshit.  He wanted magical thinking. Well, nobody does irrational, magical fantasy like I do. If he was afraid of compressible tigers then I was going to give him the resources to battle the most badass flattened feline that ever did crawl under a bed. First we did a room sweep; under the bed, in the closet, behind the door. Then I got my son’s stuffed tiger from the zoo. This was his very own transformational bodyguard. Who better to beat down some punk-ass rough tiger then another meaner tiger? For good measure, he also went to sleep with a Nerf pistol in one hand and a Nerf rifle in the other. I am happy to say that that piece of shit tiger did not have the balls to show up again. 
 

          Lee says: As a Mother, there are some things I wish I never knew. One of those things is seeing how my husband parents. I swear sometimes it’s cringe-worthy. No, Mommies would never do that to their babies. No, Mommies would never write a post and refer to her little angel and God’s little miracle as a ‘bastard’ and ‘dipshit’. No, a Mommy would never arm a child with Nerf weapons to kill an imaginary tiger that is under the bed.


          Moms do things like believe the whole Harry Potter hype that his mother saved him with her love. We like to swaddle our children in our love and have them find safety in our arms. We fight monsters with our Mommy glares and declare their bedrooms safe from ninja demons because of our awesome Mommy powers. Ultimately I think, WHAT A CROCK OF SHIT!


          Personally I’ll take weapons any day to fight the squished pussy under his bed. Maybe even a bowie knife. Mom’s are badass people and Lily Potter might have protected Harry with her love but if she would have had a chance she would have shoved her foot up Voldemort’s ass. So, to sum up, love is great but weapons and cool martial arts are better.

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Us with Jeannie, Mari and Georgie at the book signing.

          If adversity breeds triumph then success spawns destruction. Marriage bonds have snapped under its tensile strength and many a child has been crushed by success’ weight. So, we at CoupleDumb, after an incredibly successful launch of our book Dysaffirmations: Because this kind of stupid takes work on Saturday, are going into Monday writing about success and doing everything  that it can not to do what is natural when facing the monster we call success; run for the hills.


          Paul says: Lee and I do not celebrate our successes. Please understand me, this is not an ideal that we promote but, instead, our own marital dysfunction that we are really, really trying to break. We celebrated our 20 year anniversary with a three day cruise because somewhere in our garden of crazy there was a weed of healthiness that said we should make note of two decades of success in relationship.  Anniversaries, promotions, book publications, and awards all slip away like a mirage.  And why is this? Because success is personal that is defined by the recipient.


          When I was a child, I made one of those turkeys, the kind were you trace your hand. I’ve always been kind of a short bus person when it comes to the visual arts so my hand-turkey had some form of Simpsons-like disease with the finger/feathers being too few and not proportional for a human. I don’t know whether hoofed animals can make hand-turkeys. Of course, I presented it to my mother who accepted it like mothers do with raves and kisses and stuck it, with a magnet, in the museum that was our refrigerator. Immediately that palsied turkey became my own surreal still life with poultry.


          As children, others assign our successes. Our parents say ‘good job’ when we make poopoo in the potty. Our teachers begin to place a letter value on our work. But when we get older, the locus of success moves from outside ourselves to inside. We get that ‘A’ in a class and we define whether or not it is a success. In my experience, we do everything that we can to discount the success. ‘I got an A but it was a low A’ or ‘It was an easy class’ or my personal favorite, ‘but I had to work my ass off to get an A’ thus implying that others received the grade easily and that I am not entirely worthy of my ‘A’.


          So we flit from event to event, looking for the next success to discount and always making accomplishment a function of the next goal up to be mastered. It is ingrained in our culture to downplay success. ‘Pride goeth before a fall’. And, of course, pride is one of the deadly sins. But I am not talking about pride here. I’m not writing about an inordinate opinion of my importance. What I am committing to myself is to thank God for the gifts that he made of me by stopping and taking a moment to say ‘good job.’ I’m going to decorate my refrigerator with some of my stuff. I’m going to enjoy my own deformed turkey.


          Lee says: May I say Good Monday everybody! Paul, in his cute and unsocial way, gets a little freaked around success and forgets his manners.


          For me, success is something I strive for and completely discount within the same breath. I was bred to be a winner. My parents were successful; from penniless immigrants to wealthy entrepreneurs within a matter of a handful of years. My brother is a business wizard and my sister has supported herself and family her whole life. For me, success has been a given. That’s what we do.


          But with my success comes a healthy dose of ‘Something is wrong here’; the disbelief so thick that any concept of cheering is lost in the investigation. Paul and I only recently noticed that we don’t celebrate our success. I know, so much insight but not much brains. I think the celebration is an acceptance that we are special. That validation means nothing without the belief that we are.


          Personally, I know I’m good but the idea that anyone else would recognize that is unfathomable. Welcome to my hovel of crazy. I am a very good employee and work my butt off every chance I get. Excellence is our motto and winning comes naturally. I would say that I am the employee of the month but that might come with cake and a certificate and we wouldn’t want that.

 

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          Jeannie loves all animals and had asked Santa to bring her a snake many years ago.  Now it seems like an easy request.  Your baby asks for a gift.  You have the means of giving it to her.  Why wouldn’t you do it?  The answer was easy: Paul.  My husband is terrified of snakes.  When I say terrified I don’t mean like Indiana Jones saying, “Why did it have to be snakes?”  I mean he screams like a little girl when he sees a 4” garden snake and has a reflexive need to smash them with a hammer or anything heavy he can find.

I remember the conversation after we read her letter to Santa.

                    Paul: “Can’t we get her something else?”

                    Me:   “Like what?”

                    Paul: “I don’t know.  Maybe a dog?”

                    Me:   “We already have 4 dogs.”

                    Paul: “The snake will kill me.”

                    Me:   “Pardon me?”

The rest of the conversation was weird with Paul rocking himself back and forth in a fetal position. 

That night we decided that we would not pass our fears onto our kids.  Many of the fears we carry as adults were actually handed down to us by our parents.  Fear is not a genetic marker but socialized fear is as dominant a trait as brown hair and freckles.  It’s easier for us as parents to accept that our children share our fears so we never have to overcome them.  Some fears are natural and show a respect for nature.  A fear of snakes isn’t really going to paralyze anyone unless your child decides to be an adventurer/archeologist. 

But, what if the fear is public speaking?  Simple verbal cues like, “Oh my God!  You have to do an oral report?” gives the message that these things are terrifying.  As adults we know that success in business and most industries hinge on one’s ability to speak in public and yet many choose paths to avoid certain fears like writing, doing math or doing presentations.   When we speak of fear of success it really means, “I’m not really willing to do what it takes to be successful.”  These fears and messages are transmitted to our kids.  The blanket beliefs we have about things are etched in their little psyches, i.e. “I’d rather gouge my eyes out than write a report,” or “All of those types of people are bad”.

So, of course, Jeannie got her snake.  Paul put his fears to one side and was able to avoid scarring one of our kids, this time.   I have faith in us.  We still have time for some good traumatizing and two more kids to mess up.  

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