Read Online Area Woman Blows Gasket by Patricia Pearson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patricia Pearson
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after I read angel
three stories, I tell her that Mommy's just going downstairs to make tea, and when I come back she's asleep."
Well, I don't find that, do I? I find that angel follows me downstairs and asks for a dish of noodles.
Of course, where I see a problem, entrepreneurs see an opportunity, so I note that there's a burgeoning crop of GO TO SLEEP
audio products on the market. Video producer Kandi Amelon in Chicago, for instance, has recently released Nighty Night, a, twenty-minute cinematic extravaganza of yawning baby animals, courtesy of Peter Pan Productions.
In my view, this is designed to induce sleep through boredom, whereas the more traditional videos, like Sweet Dreams, Spot, and Maisy y s Bedtime, merely hint at the popularity of sleep among a child's favorite characters, much the way that every preschool book ever published
ends with the hero comatose in a bed.
Videos are not the answer in this house, because there's something creepy and Brave New World about having electronic portals
in every bedroom.
I prefer cassettes. Since Clara spent the first six months of her life listening to a continuous loop recording of vacuum
cleaner noise, there's cause for hope.
Thus I found The Floppy Sleep Game tape, created by a cheerful California lady named Patti Teel. A children's entertainer in Burbank, Teel has been garnering
great word of mouth for the "progressive relaxation technique" she's adapted from yoga and embedded in her game. Hyper children
are said to be snoozing within half an hour, after listening to her Betty Boop voice direct them in a sort of self-hypnosis
exercise.
I ordered the tape, and excitedly played it for Clara when all other rituals had been attended to. She was sitting cross-legged
on her bed, avidly popping the bubbles from a padded envelope.
Teel's voice materialized in a tinkle of music and encouraged her to lie down. Clara obliged, holding the envelope above her
to resume popping. To the faint sound of crickets, Teel said: "Close your eyes, and imagine that you're lying outside on a
blanket in your own, special meadow."
Clara continued popping. "You're supposed to close your eyes," I prompted.
"Why?"
"Because we're playing the floppy sleep game."
"What does floppy mean?"
"It means . . . I don't know, like . . . a rag doll."
"What's a rag?"
"It's an old washcloth, Clara— just listen to the tape."
"Lift your leg and let it flop down again," murmured Teel. Clara engaged in the body relaxation instructions for a while,
then went back to her bubble popping. When Teel segued into a lullaby, Clara deconstructed the lyrics like Jacques Derrida.
"Oh, forget it," I muttered, turning the tape recorder off.
"Mommy? Are you tired?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."
"You can go to sleep if you want to."
Oh, thanks.
Last night I had a dream about Benicio Del Toro, the actor who, being male, gets to stride around with puffy eyes, unwashed
hair, and minimal makeup and still be considered THE most gorgeous specimen of Latin masculinity ever to emerge from small-town
Pennsylvania. In my dream we were having a wonderful, wonderful romance, although for some reason we were in a dental office
and I kept having to spit into a paper cup. But it was delicious and enthralling. When I woke up, Clara was feeding Chiclets
to the cat.
Is That a Cheerio Stuck to My Pants, or Are
You Just Happy to See Me?
I was at the Children's Museum with thousands of highly excited toddlers streaking by me in every direction like a huge colony
of snow-suited ants, when at some point, feeling harried and claustrophobic, I looked up and noticed a dad checking me out.
No way! He can't be looking at me, can he? I'm a mom! What's he looking at? Is there something on my shirt? An unusually large
smear of applesauce or snot? Because he can't be looking at me. I. Am. A. Mom. There must be Scotch tape on my pants.
Five years ago I might have registered his gaze as admiring or
three stories, I tell her that Mommy's just going downstairs to make tea, and when I come back she's asleep."
Well, I don't find that, do I? I find that angel follows me downstairs and asks for a dish of noodles.
Of course, where I see a problem, entrepreneurs see an opportunity, so I note that there's a burgeoning crop of GO TO SLEEP
audio products on the market. Video producer Kandi Amelon in Chicago, for instance, has recently released Nighty Night, a, twenty-minute cinematic extravaganza of yawning baby animals, courtesy of Peter Pan Productions.
In my view, this is designed to induce sleep through boredom, whereas the more traditional videos, like Sweet Dreams, Spot, and Maisy y s Bedtime, merely hint at the popularity of sleep among a child's favorite characters, much the way that every preschool book ever published
ends with the hero comatose in a bed.
Videos are not the answer in this house, because there's something creepy and Brave New World about having electronic portals
in every bedroom.
I prefer cassettes. Since Clara spent the first six months of her life listening to a continuous loop recording of vacuum
cleaner noise, there's cause for hope.
Thus I found The Floppy Sleep Game tape, created by a cheerful California lady named Patti Teel. A children's entertainer in Burbank, Teel has been garnering
great word of mouth for the "progressive relaxation technique" she's adapted from yoga and embedded in her game. Hyper children
are said to be snoozing within half an hour, after listening to her Betty Boop voice direct them in a sort of self-hypnosis
exercise.
I ordered the tape, and excitedly played it for Clara when all other rituals had been attended to. She was sitting cross-legged
on her bed, avidly popping the bubbles from a padded envelope.
Teel's voice materialized in a tinkle of music and encouraged her to lie down. Clara obliged, holding the envelope above her
to resume popping. To the faint sound of crickets, Teel said: "Close your eyes, and imagine that you're lying outside on a
blanket in your own, special meadow."
Clara continued popping. "You're supposed to close your eyes," I prompted.
"Why?"
"Because we're playing the floppy sleep game."
"What does floppy mean?"
"It means . . . I don't know, like . . . a rag doll."
"What's a rag?"
"It's an old washcloth, Clara— just listen to the tape."
"Lift your leg and let it flop down again," murmured Teel. Clara engaged in the body relaxation instructions for a while,
then went back to her bubble popping. When Teel segued into a lullaby, Clara deconstructed the lyrics like Jacques Derrida.
"Oh, forget it," I muttered, turning the tape recorder off.
"Mommy? Are you tired?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am."
"You can go to sleep if you want to."
Oh, thanks.
Last night I had a dream about Benicio Del Toro, the actor who, being male, gets to stride around with puffy eyes, unwashed
hair, and minimal makeup and still be considered THE most gorgeous specimen of Latin masculinity ever to emerge from small-town
Pennsylvania. In my dream we were having a wonderful, wonderful romance, although for some reason we were in a dental office
and I kept having to spit into a paper cup. But it was delicious and enthralling. When I woke up, Clara was feeding Chiclets
to the cat.
Is That a Cheerio Stuck to My Pants, or Are
You Just Happy to See Me?
I was at the Children's Museum with thousands of highly excited toddlers streaking by me in every direction like a huge colony
of snow-suited ants, when at some point, feeling harried and claustrophobic, I looked up and noticed a dad checking me out.
No way! He can't be looking at me, can he? I'm a mom! What's he looking at? Is there something on my shirt? An unusually large
smear of applesauce or snot? Because he can't be looking at me. I. Am. A. Mom. There must be Scotch tape on my pants.
Five years ago I might have registered his gaze as admiring or
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