I don’t think even the infinite vacuum force of a black hole could pull this wine bottle from my lips right now.
Yep, I’m drinking straight from the bottle.
OK, so there’s only about a quarter of a cup left, but it’s still satisfying to feel like a character in a spaghetti western watching from the dusty bar as the outlaws duke it out in the OK Corral.
Both are wearing black hats as far as I’m concerned — there is no “good guy.” They’re fighting over land rights: who gets to go in whose room. Wee Man is banging some toy against the wall, Roo is in her room screaming for him to stop. He says he’s only going to stop if she lets him in her room. She just declared he may only come in for one second, and it will be the last time in his life he ever enjoys the privilege.
It’s perhaps the dumbest fight they’ve ever had. But it’s raging on unchecked as I cuddle with my bottle of Apothic Red and type.
Typically I try to bring peace and order when my kids fight. But not tonight. I’m trying Wayne Dyer’s noninterference parenting. I heard him speak about it on Hay House Radio. He talked about how he recently presided over pool time with a mixed bag of grandson and a friend’s young children. Each time one came to him complaining of what another had done, he raised his hand and told the child he was a Taoist master, and he wasn’t interested. Eventually they stopped bugging him and peace was restored.
Dyer has been one of the best-known voices in self-help since the mid-1970s when he published his first book, “Your Erroneous Zones.” He’s since published either 1 or 2 zillion more best-sellers. He brings peace and love everywhere he goes. He’s my one of my all-time favorite authors.
Dyer has also raised eight kids, and they all seem to still like him. Granted, he has no hair, but he seems otherwise unscathed from his time in the parenting pit.
So right now I’m channeling my inner Wayne. I’m pretending like I don’t hear the nonstop screams, the toys flinging upstairs and the hateful words my kids are hurling like spears. The Roo just came barging into my room with tears streaming to regale me with dramatic tales of her brother’s evil deeds. I told her I didn’t care and she needed to work it out with him, please close the door behind her.
Now I hear her calling for Daddy. Funny, I just called the man myself. But not to tell him about how I’ll never let the kids in my room again. I just asked for him to stop on his way home and pick up another bottle of wine.