July 30: Shut Up, You Suck, Prayer for Happiness

"I said I'm not going back to school.  You can do what you want to do, but I'm not going back to school," she said.  "So shut up."  It was the first time she ever told me to shut up.  It sounded terrible.  God, it sounded terrible.  It sounded worse than swearing.  She still wouldn't look at me either, and every time I sort of put my hand on her shoulder or something, she wouldn't let me.

Phoebe is pissed at Holden in the above paragraph, and she shows her anger with words.  She tells her brother to "shut up."  When words like that come out of kids' mouths, it does sound worse than swearing.  Holden's right.  Phoebe's "shut up" is Holden's "fuck you."

My four-year-old son is similar to Phoebe when he gets angry.  Last week, we were visiting my sister-in-law.  When it was time to leave, my son decided he wanted to stay.  When I informed him he didn't really have the option to remain behind, my son stomped away from me and yelled, "Well, you suck!  Your car sucks!  I don't want to go home!  Home sucks!"  Every time he said the word "suck," I wanted to die.

Yes, I know my son was only throwing a temper tantrum, and I know my son is only four years old.  But I've been struggling over the last week or so to feel content with my life.  So, today, I'm going to pray a Please-Don't-Let-My-Life-Suck Prayer.  You could also call it a Prayer for Happiness.

Dear God of all things that don't suck,

Hi.  It's me again.  The guy whose son thinks everything sucks.  (By the way, I didn't teach him that.)

I'm writing to ask for happiness.  I'm not talking about J. K. Rowling-sized happiness.  I don't need a billion dollars.  (I wouldn't turn that down, if it's in Your plan, though.)  I just want some small piece of happiness.  For instance, I entered a poetry chapbook contest a while ago.  Winning that contest would totally not suck.

I'm not demanding anything.  I'm not greedy.  All I want is something good to happen in my life.  Something that doesn't suck.  You've already taken away the job at the university and given me an $800 repair on my car.  How about a small, insignificant success?  Something that will make my son realize I don't suck, that I drive an OK car, and that our house isn't a roach motel.

I know You're busy, so I'll make it easy for You:  poetry chapbook, thousand-dollar prize, publication.  That not too much to ask.  We can talk about bigger things later.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

At least in my son's opinion...