The life-changing magic of really expensive therapy - Ekemode Seun Damilare

I get sent a ton of self-help books—How and Where to Hide The Body was a particularly useful one given that it had a chapter dedicated to the window of time it takes for flesh to start rotting and provided useful tips for how to mask the odor—and recently the whole “being mindful” theme to these books has gone up about a thousand notches. I’m getting mindfulness books for kids, and I’m like, DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT A KID IS. It’s like that one awful person who wrote that one awful book about tidying up who said that kids will figure out how to declutter their lives by learning it from us through goddamn osmosis. I’m pretty sure—correct me if I’m wrong—but she didn’t have a child when she wrote that book and until she practices mitosis, she can shut the fuck up.

Yes. I’m still mad about that book. I don’t hold grudges except maybe now I do.

Little kids already live in the moment. They are the embodiment of what we’re trying to recreate in our lives by practicing mindfulness. Those of you who have ever lived with a small child know exactly what I am talking about, and all this shit about “letting ourselves experience the emotion,

preventing ourselves from escaping the emotion” have more than once or twice or twelve times told a five-year-old asshole to get off the floor of Target and save the screaming and the tears for later when we can lock them in a closet. STAVE OFF THAT EMOTION NOW BEFORE I COME OVER THERE TO THE TOY AISLE AND STAVE IT OFF FOR YOU.

The last few months—fine, years, YEARS—with Marlo illustrate this perfectly, in particular our morning routines together as a unit of three. Leta and I had come to dread breakfast and the drive to school because we didn’t know what we were going to get with that kid. Would we get “Meh Marlo” who could not be bothered to have an opinion on what to eat or wear or listen to in the car—WE HOPED! WE HOPED! WE PRAYED AND FASTED!—or would we get “Maul Your Fucking Face Off Marlo” who preferred to be asleep in her bed and, what? Excuse me? You offered her a waffle for breakfast? A waffle with maple syrup and fresh fruit? How. Dare. You. Go ahead and die and at your funeral she will toss that maple syrup and fresh fruit-topped waffle on the lid of your coffin and then turn around to all who have gathered to make an overly dramatic jerk off motion before running over to your mother, poking her in the eye, and snapping the elastic of her panties.
Many, many, many, many times in the last year we got the latter. Like, all the time. We wore helmets to bed just in case, you know?

She felt rage and was letting herself bask in that emotion. I can’t wait to finish a course in mindfulness so that I can take an axe out into a field and destroy a fuckton of gourds.

I get sent a ton of self-help books—How and Where to Hide The Body was a particularly useful one given that it had a chapter dedicated to the window of time it takes for flesh to start rotting and provided useful tips for how to mask the odor—and recently the whole “being mindful” theme to these books has gone up about a thousand notches. I’m getting mindfulness books for kids, and I’m like, DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT A KID IS. It’s like that one awful person who wrote that one awful book about tidying up who said that kids will figure out how to declutter their lives by learning it from us through goddamn osmosis. I’m pretty sure—correct me if I’m wrong—but she didn’t have a child when she wrote that book and until she practices mitosis, she can shut the fuck up.

Yes. I’m still mad about that book. I don’t hold grudges except maybe now I do.

Little kids already live in the moment. They are the embodiment of what we’re trying to recreate in our lives by practicing mindfulness. Those of you who have ever lived with a small child know exactly what I am talking about, and all this shit about “letting ourselves experience the emotion, preventing ourselves from escaping the emotion” have more than once or twice or twelve times told a five-year-old asshole to get off the floor of Target and save the screaming and the tears for later when we can lock them in a closet. STAVE OFF THAT EMOTION NOW BEFORE I COME OVER THERE TO THE TOY AISLE AND STAVE IT OFF FOR YOU.

The last few months—fine, years, YEARS—with Marlo illustrate this perfectly, in particular our morning routines together as a unit of three. Leta and I had come to dread breakfast and the drive to school because we didn’t know what we were going to get with that kid. Would we get “Meh Marlo” who could not be bothered to have an opinion on what to eat or wear or listen to in the car—WE HOPED! WE HOPED! WE PRAYED AND FASTED!—or would we get “Maul Your Fucking Face Off Marlo” who preferred to be asleep in her bed and, what? Excuse me? You offered her a waffle for breakfast? A waffle with maple syrup and fresh fruit? How. Dare. You. Go ahead and die and at your funeral she will toss that maple syrup and fresh fruit-topped waffle on the lid of your coffin and then turn around to all who have gathered to make an overly dramatic jerk off motion before running over to your mother, poking her in the eye, and snapping the elastic of her panties.
Many, many, many, many times in the last year we got the latter. Like, all the time. We wore helmets to bed just in case, you know?
She felt rage and was letting herself bask in that emotion. I can’t wait to finish a course in mindfulness so that I can take an axe out into a field and destroy a fuckton of gourds.

I get sent a ton of self-help books—How and Where to Hide The Body was a particularly useful one given that it had a chapter dedicated to the window of time it takes for flesh to start rotting and provided useful tips for how to mask the odor—and recently the whole “being mindful” theme to these books has gone up about a thousand notches. I’m getting mindfulness books for kids, and I’m like, DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT A KID IS. It’s like that one awful person who wrote that one awful book about tidying up who said that kids will figure out how to declutter their lives by learning it from us through goddamn osmosis. I’m pretty sure—correct me if I’m wrong—but she didn’t have a child when she wrote that book and until she practices mitosis, she can shut the fuck up.

Yes. I’m still mad about that book. I don’t hold grudges except maybe now I do.

Little kids already live in the moment. They are the embodiment of what we’re trying to recreate in our lives by practicing mindfulness. Those of you who have ever lived with a small child know exactly what I am talking about, and all this shit about “letting ourselves experience the emotion, preventing ourselves from escaping the emotion” have more than once or twice or twelve times told a five-year-old asshole to get off the floor of Target and save the screaming and the tears for later when we can lock them in a closet. STAVE OFF THAT EMOTION NOW BEFORE I COME OVER THERE TO THE TOY AISLE AND STAVE IT OFF FOR YOU.

The last few months—fine, years, YEARS—with Marlo illustrate this perfectly, in particular our morning routines together as a unit of three. Leta and I had come to dread breakfast and the drive to school because we didn’t know what we were going to get with that kid. Would we get “Meh Marlo” who could not be bothered to have an opinion on what to eat or wear or listen to in the car—WE HOPED! WE HOPED! WE PRAYED AND FASTED!—or would we get “Maul Your Fucking Face Off Marlo” who preferred to be asleep in her bed and, what? Excuse me? You offered her a waffle for breakfast? A waffle with maple syrup and fresh fruit? How. Dare. You. Go ahead and die and at your funeral she will toss that maple syrup and fresh fruit-topped waffle on the lid of your coffin and then turn around to all who have gathered to make an overly dramatic jerk off motion before running over to your mother, poking her in the eye, and snapping the elastic of her panties.
Many, many, many, many times in the last year we got the latter. Like, all the time. We wore helmets to bed just in case, you know?
She felt rage and was letting herself bask in that emotion. I can’t wait to finish a course in mindfulness so that I can take an axe out into a field and destroy a fuckton of gourds.