oh, hi.

i'm glad you could make it.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

sometimes kids say things. sometimes i do.

Toska:  (Russian, coined by Vladimir Nabokov) No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.


It always happens at a moment I least expect it, and I can never pinpoint when it started.  Except I think I believe now that I could have been born with it, thanks to a 2-year-old.  But it's good to know there's a word out there to help dispel it-- or at least describe it.  In that completely indescribable sort of way.


Born with it?  Because of this:  sometimes very respectable and rational human beings ask me-- even pay me!-- to watch over their children.  They do so with the understanding that I now have influence over these kids' lives.  Willingly.  But that's not the only unbelievable part.  I "have" this 2-year-old two to four times a week that is precious and charming and blue-eyed and probably everything I wasn't as a 2-year-old.  She's ideal.  Except when I first started nannying her, she would occasionally have these strange bursts-- maybe every other week-- also known as "The Rage."  


"The Rage"  isn't a particularly good way to describe it either, though.  Sometimes there are fists, but mostly it's just a scream/cry-- a weird desperation that is not remedied by any amount of soothing words or lollipops.  I started asking her questions during these moments, hoping to get to the root of the problem.  And then one day, together, we finally saw each other eye-to-eye.  


We were driving to go pick up her older brother.  I had reached my darkest moments earlier that afternoon in true artist form and continued to my job in true needing-to-still-comply-with-social-norms-and-the-rules-of-getting-and-keeping-a-regular-income form.   The little one was completely fine-- as fine as bubbles and Cheerios.  But as we proceeded to our next destination, The Rage started.  It was sudden, loud, and terrifying.  So I started asking questions:


"Helen*, are you thirsty?!"


"No!"


"Helen, are you hurt?!"


"No!


"Helen, do you miss your mom?!"


"No!"


Me, exasperated, needing someone to relate: "Helen, is the sadness of the world just too great for us?"


"Yes, Miss Mallory, it is!"


Ah.  Toska.  Helen and I have seen things much clearer since then.  And The Rage hasn't occurred since.  Sometimes just a quiet murmur in the backseat while we're driving up the interstate.  


And I say, "Toska."  


And she answers quietly, "Okay."


We got this one.










*name has been changed for the usual reasons and also so I can stay employed.

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