Monday, July 11, 2011

The Panic Room

Morning Readers,

     Ahh, another Sunday, another fight for our lives. Thank goodness it's Monday and not Sunday, in which case, I'd still be dwelling on the horror and thinking it's Sunday and hoping for Monday and losing my mind somewhere along the way. But it's Monday, and it's all behind me....until next Sunday, and then I'll have to do it all over again. OK, now I'm dwelling, a horrible thing as I should be doing laundry, starting the dishwasher or solving that wily Rubik's Cube we call World Peace. Perhaps this is what panic feels like, but I shouldn't panic because I'm not in there anymore...am I?

...No, today is Monday.

     A couple months ago, I watched the movie Panic Room. A ridiculous film featuring Jodie Foster, (a very young and yet, still expressionless) Kristen Stewart, and Jared Leto's corn rows, Panic Room elaborates on the nightmarish situation of being stalked within your own home while trapped "safely" inside a big, metal box. Although the movie leaves a lot to be desired in the area of actual entertainment, I couldn't help thinking the situation itself would be a tad terrifying. Turns out, it's not; it's all about what's trapped with you on the inside of the box.
     Ok, now I'm sure yesterday was Sunday because that's when we got shut in the box. The box, the box...most people call it a "cry room", but if everyone was honest for a second and took a vote, they'd re-name it the "Panic Room" for fair warning. So, the next time you find yourself at church and in a "cry room", please watch for the following. Jodie Foster, take notes.

The Clown Car Effect:

      You've done it, taken the first responsible step to keeping your child from screaming while Mrs. Crinklewhite prays for salvation. Dragging your diaper bag, Cheerios and library of board books behind you, your little posse stumbles into the quiet room, after which, you close the oak door and thank the good Lord no one else is there. But, "oh no", just as you've gotten settled, ninety-eight other children and parents try to squeeze in. Pretty soon, you've got children stacked in corners, elbows in eyes, one second to remember whether you're claustrophobic, and two seconds to decipher who's the "Problem Parent".

The Problem Parent:

      The problem parent is unaware there are others in the Panic Room. Their precious, little Bobby has never shared his things, been hermetically sealed away from the rest of the world, and today is not the day he's going to change it. The PP hovers over their child in the attempt to keep Bobby's giraffe from being gummed by your dirty offspring. An invisible circle is drawn around his things, and anyone who crosses it gambles their chance of survival. This is why your child will pick the PP first to try and purse dive off of. You're given a nasty look and five seconds to save your child's life.

The Grazing Effect:

     Once trapped in the Panic Room, all children examine their psyches and decide, with remarkable unity, they are actually small cows. Subsequently, every child, regardless of age (minus young Bobby, snacking on his organic Oaty O's) begins to mill about in search of food. You've begun to speak to the Lord. "Dear God, please give me patience so that I may no- ". Just then, you realize your baby is begging a Nilla cookie off the crazy-looking lady in the corner. You shoot her an apologetic look that says, "I really do feed them when I'm not here...really." You promise God you'll check in with Him as soon as you convince this mom your kid's not some sort of street urchin and simply a method actor training for a part in Oliver Twist..

The Mental Breakdown:

     By this point, you've managed to miss most of the sermon, but gather enough to know that strangling everyone in the room is wrong. Most of your time has been spent checking every, single move your child has made. Throwing your head against the sound-proof glass like an endangered Panda sounds viable. But there's no time for your own breakdown, your baby's having one of its own. This is how you know it's almost over. The end of church is usually signified by a massive fit. Arms flailing, screaming like a Howler Monkey, your child let's the world know you have no control over him. "Help", you mouth to the congregation.

No one shows up.

Silently, you gather up your belongings and vacate the premises. The grace of God and the promise that your beer has chilled in the last hour, give you enough courage to make it to the car and resolve to come back next Sunday.

...but today's Monday, so I won't think about it.
     
Until Next Time, Readers!