There is a child who lives in an apartment next door. She is the best form of birth control money can buy. I hate this kid. That’s a terrible thing to say; I know. Part of me feels bad for saying it. But you would hate her too.
At least once every day, this two year-old-girl screams and cries. This takes place from 7 am to 8 am, an hour of my “sleep” spent suffocating myself with a pillow, trying to drown out shrieks and yells and earth-shattering sobs. The only way I can get the noise out of my head is to repeat audibly to myself (while still under a steamy hot pillow) my own personal rosary: I hate you I hate you I hate you. More often than not, I get an afternoon and evening reprise.
Granted, sometimes she just cries, but they are deep, moaning, horrible cries, cries that make me suspect that someone just told her about mortality and eventually she is going to die. But I doubt that she can even conceive of mortality and the infinite abyss, so she’s probably upset about needing to eat her oatmeal. Child, just eat your stupid oatmeal. For the love of God, eat your oatmeal.
More often than not, however, these wails bemoaning her existence are accompanied by top-of-the-lung screaming, screaming that carries no tonal overtures like her diatonic bawlings. It’s just a blast of nuclear energy scoffing at the walls separating us and driving its way into my ear canal. WHY? You are TWO! Life is not bad for you! You want to cry about something? Graduate college and face the real world. In the mean time, please stop. Just…stop.
Should I be afraid for her? No. The joys of thin-walled Los Angeles apartments also include the noises from her guardians. I hear cajoling, pleadings, and the occasional snap of “Oh Stop It!” This kid is not being abused, unless they know a method for beating with no noise. Come to think of it, if they’re not employing that technique now, maybe they should start.
Is this really what being a parent is about? If I got a kid like that, I would take it back. I would say, No, this isn’t what I ordered. I wanted the angel child that would play quietly in the corner and everyone would exclaim, "Why, isn’t she precious!" to which I would reply,"‘She must get it from her father," and we would all titter and go about our lives. This child makes everyone cry, even the neighbors. Can I get a refund or store credit or something?
I could go on and on, but something has interrupted my passive aggressive linguistic lashings. There’s a strange new sound around me. The sound of… silence? I began writing this to the tune of misery, and now I hear nothing except the sound of the fan of my laptop, a car passing by, and the far away bark of a dog. White noise. Gentle noise. Noise that placates my twisted angry heart. I am going to let this anger go and find a more constructive use of my time, at least until she begins again. In the mean time, if you are a parent or know screaming children and have any words of wisdom to offer my bewildered, tired soul, please share.
