It’s very late, I can’t sleep, so I started thinking about Doctor Who.
Because what else do you do at 3 in the morning?
I’ve been rewatching the Amy/Rory/11 seasons lately and I have a theory I’m working on, a theory about the last three doctors (9, 10, 11).
Wanna hear? Of course you do.
Nine smashes into Earth like a great big comet. He is fire and rage and it’s mostly directed at himself. Rose is the first face that face saw. She believed in him; she believed that he was a hero. And with her help, he was. Though at the beginning you could have designated him as the Angry Doctor, I think that he became the Redeemed Doctor. Rose’s faith was not misplaced. He began to see that he could be redeemed from the destruction of Gallifrey. But, more importantly, he began to believe it. When he regenerated, he did so with confidence and strength. He was the Doctor. He just saved the world from the worst threat of the universe, the Daleks, again. He even kissed Miss Rose.
He was, in a word, fantastic!
This was the attitude that 10 rode into the world with. He is the Doctor Knight. That he is the grand Knight in Shining Armor is only reinforced by his first outing: in a sword-fight over London for the fate of the Earth and, frankly, kicking butt. He began his adventure believing he was the hero. Now, he just had to woo the girl who believed. And it worked! The Doctor and the companion were in love and 10 had achieved all that a knight could ever want.
Then he lost Rose.
He. Lost. Rose.
The cracks in the Doctor reopened, perhaps even more than before. However, Martha and her hero-adoration allowed him to put those cracks in a tidy box in his subconscious, never to be dealt with again. He continued to save the day rather heroically and with really great hair. After Martha, Donna was the perfect sidekick. They wisecracked through time and space. They were Hope and Crosby in the Tardis (doesn’t that sound scary?). And he even got Rose back!!! Those cracks could most definitely be ignored because he defeated the Daleks again and even saved all those other missing planets.
But he lost Rose, again.
No, there is no consolation in watching your love walk away with your poor copy. And on top of that, it got worse.
He lost Donna.
Yes, he saved her. But it wasn’t really her. Not anymore.
But he was still the hero! He couldn’t believe otherwise because he would literally crack apart. And he almost convinced himself. He began to believe that he could ride in on his Tardis, waving his sonic screwdriver, and save the day.
The death of one single astronaut broke the image he had created since 9. He was not a hero. He was a murderer from Gallifrey. Honestly, he barely held it together long enough to defeat the Master a second time. And saving Wilf was not a victory. Not really. It only sealed his complete failure to redeem himself. He had failed all of 9’s expectations. He had failed his own.
For me, this explains 11. He is the Broken Doctor. Like many, I didn’t really enjoy 11 at first. This new regeneration bumbled and flopped back onto Earth. The Knight was gone. He almost has more in common with 9 at this point. Only 9 progressed upward while 11 seemed to fall down more and more as time moved on. He is so broken after he meets Amy that he almost kills a Star Whale. Not even for a planet’s sake. Just for one lone nation in space.
But Amy does believe. At first.
Like Rose, she sees the hero. The problem is, the Doctor she believes in isn’t real. The Doctor didn’t do a thing when they first met. He ate fish custard and examined a crack in her wall. Then hopped back into his Tardis and flew away. Amy created the Doctor that stayed. In her mind, he stayed and slew all her demons. As she grew up a Scottish girl in an English town, with a very scary crack in her wall, her imaginary friend saved her. But that wasn’t 11. When he showed up, she had begun to outgrow him. When he returned he was still the bumbling fool she met as a girl. But this time she could see that. That’s why she locked him to a car door by his necktie. She couldn’t understand the difference between this Doctor and her hero. The defeat of Prisoner Zero allowed her to see her Doctor again. But it was only an overlay. Now and then she could see the Broken Doctor through it, and it strained her faith. And it showed, repeatedly. Once Amy even asked him “What good are you?!?” when he couldn’t save Rory in a dream-state. And then he lost Rory for good. He is constantly losing Amy or Rory during his time with them. It’s a theme that creates a certain distrust at a subconscious level. He tried to redeem himself in part when the Pandorica opened. He figured it was okay if he ended. He would go and Amy and Rory would live and though that could not fix him, at least he would finally be Amy’s hero.
But his plan to die heroically didn’t work. Amy was Amy. She wouldn’t let her hero go once he had lived up that name. And I think the Doctor began to believe the hero narrative as well. Though greatly distracted by news of his death, he marshals every force at his command to save Amy and her baby. But, as River predicted, the Doctor came as close as he could to being 10, only to fall even further than before. After this, events spiral quickly towards his official death.
An event necessary to this is Amy’s disillusionment. Through it all, she wanted so desperately to believe in the Hero Doctor. Perhaps seeing him die made her more charitable. Finally, he was forced to make her see. In the hotel, he made her see that he was really just a madman in a box. A broken madman.
As hard as this is for 11, he again consoles himself. After all, he’s going to die for the whole universe. Again. Another chance for grand heroics and that long-sought redemption.
Of course, River ruined that. She’s a great one for spoiling his tragic death scenes. He even had to marry her this time. Poor Doctor. To his great surprise, after that whole Dalek asylum thing, Amy and Rory stay. He didn’t realize he was longing for something he hadn’t had since Donna: friends. Even though Amy and Rory are outgrowing him, he has friends. And he is clinging fiercely to that. Maybe, just maybe, if someone like him could have friends perhaps he was some good after all.
If all had gone as he hoped, perhaps the Doctor would have begun to pick himself up. Perhaps the cracks he was riddled with would begin to close.
But he lost Amy and Rory. For good.
With one moment of inattention, his best friends were stolen from him. One by an angel and the other by a love that was so much more than he could ever have. That’s why the Doctor ended up on that cloud over London, bitter and alone. He was punishing himself. He didn’t deserve to have friends. And he certainly wasn’t good enough to save anybody.
Even the (re)introduction of Clara was an exercise in self-flagellation. His actions killed her over and over and over. And in the end, he is tired. All this time he just wanted to be 10, to live up to the title of Knight Doctor. He wanted to be a Hero. He was almost one, fighting alongside 10 and the War Doctor. But without Gallifrey intact, it was an empty victory. The town of Christmas wasn’t just another fight. It was his last fight. He knew that going in. This was his very last chance to redeem himself and die very heroically in the process.
Clara got in the way of that one. But this time he was given a gift: he had the chance to regenerate once more. Perhaps this regeneration could be a hero. Perhaps he could find Gallifrey. But it seems he is haunted by his failures. “Tell me, Clara: am I a good man?” We’ll have to see what kind of doctor 12 is. It will certainly be interesting to see where we go from the Broken Doctor.
I am aware that I am completely ignoring any arcs weaving through and carrying over from Doctors 1-8. I’m much less familiar with them, so I’m okay with that
N.B. I’ve mostly glossed over Rory because, frankly, he never really believed in the Doctor. He always saw him exactly as he was. But that’s the best thing about Rory. He loves despite that. He sees every quirk, every flaw and he is lovingly, unflaggingly loyal. Honestly, I think Rory might be my favorite companion (close tie with Donna). Everyone was supposed to think he was a Mickey, a dispensable plot device at best. But Rory was one of few companions who stood up to the Doctor. Furthermore, he was always there for Amy. He was there when the imaginary friend wasn’t. Once he was sure of Amy’s love, he could do anything.
In fact, he did.
And he was very awesome. Who needs a Doctor when you can have a nurse?
Because blogging assumes that the internet cares about the minute details of one’s life, I will now share my current favorite things:
Doctor Who (always)
Just read the first two books of Divergent. Saving up for the last one. Good reads but not for kids, I think.
The History of the Ancient World: From the Earliest Accounts to the Fall of Rome by Susan Wise Bauer
While sounding like a dry old history book, this is actually really entertaining. The author writes with a keen sense of humor, and covers history from the entire ancient world. But, probably only a favorite for history nerds like me.
Man of Steel
RED, RED 2
Despicable Me 2
A decent brand of potstickers in a huge bag
Corned beef (okay, always)
Chicken Caesar Salads
White Mountain Dew
Handsome, of course!
Wow, Frozen sure has stirred up a lot of emotions. I’ve heard rabid ravings from those who love it and those who think it’s the most horrible movie since Shrek. Actually, I think this has gotten more resistance than Shrek which is full of crude innuendos and bathroom humor.
I must admit to being mostly ambivalent to Frozen. I didn’t really get worked up pre-release and the music doesn’t make me run around the house singing at the top of my lungs and throwing blankets dramatically over my shoulders (unlike some people I know). Certainly part of it is that it barely resembles the original fairy tale “The Snow Queen”. I find the other one much more compelling and would have loved to see an adaptation of that with the same level of musical and artistic abilities. We only own a copy because my husband wanted to see it. I know, insert giggling here. Husbands can be silly sometimes, but since the same husband lets me buy books, I can’t complain. :)
When I finally watched it, I loved little parts of it. Like little Hans and Sven. They’re soooo adorable! And Olaf is not crude like many humorous characters are these days. He’s just genuinely funny, and absolutely cute to boot. The music from the very beginning with the icecutters is stirring, but then I’ve always loved male choirs. I loved that a kid movie mentioned fractals (Let It Go). I mean, seriously, fractals! The animation was superb and Anna was handsdown the least elegant Disney princess ever. Even more so than Merida. And she was awkward. And swung a mandolin and flaming bedrolls at wolves. Pretty fun!
Most of the complaints I have are so minute that they seem ridiculous to say. And they have little to do with the stated objections of almost everyone else on the internet. But since I know the internet is dying for one more Frozen post:
Here’s my list of why Frozen really sucks, so you should never, ever watch it again and blame yourself for poor parenting….
Okay, not really. But that’s what everyone else’s Frozen post says so I thought I’d throw it in there.
Here’s my complaints for real:
Low bodices. There has been a trend lately of lowering necklines in animated movies for several years. Rapunzel was the most recent example, and now we have Anna and Elsa (post-tantrum) to add. Anna’s ballgown is rather unapologetic in showing off her shoulders and back while barely staying up on her chest. By the way, I still cannot figure out how strapless tops stay up! I mean, you’d have to glue them on. Ouch! And that leads to Elsa’s ice-castle dress. Which again magically defies gravity and is very slinky. Is it terrible? Are there heaving bosoms? No. But it’s a trend that is going in that direction.
Speaking of Elsa post-tantrum: I find this whole scene distasteful (except for the fractals part). “Let It Go” could be placed in any 90s teenager movie and fit right in. It’s the same old story of “nobody loves me as I am,” and “I don’t want to be the good girl, I just want to be free!!!” Just so you know, both statements must be made while swishing your hair back and forth while speaking melodramatically. I was a moody, depressed, supposedly repressed teenager.Now, as a supposedly responsible adult, I am sooooo done with all of that drama. I really don’t want my girls thinking that the only way they can be ‘free’ is to stop being a ‘good girl’. But who cares as long as you get an ice palace, a trashy makeover, and get to live all alone! Whee!
There is a questionable moment in the troll song with a reference to Kristoff’s unsanctioned activities with reindeer which left me wondering, “Why on earth did they have to put that in there? It’s a kid’s movie, for crying out loud!”
Finally, the story is weak, with poor connections and too much haste to get through all of the various plot lines. It’s not horrible, just not what I’ve come to expect, especially after Rapunzel. Also, the songs are mostly predictable. Except Olaf’s. That’s just golden. Have I mentioned I love Olaf?!
My concerns are all little ones. But these little things keep creeping into kid movies, little by little. And getting bigger and bigger. While I won’t be banning Frozen from the house, I’m uneasy with it. And I am keeping a very close eye on Disney movies, hoping that there won’t be a point that we have to stop watching them. We already had to do that with the Barbie Princess movies, but that’s another post.
My advice: be aware, be prayerful, and go with your gut. Enjoy your movie-watching!
Well, since last November, a lot has happened. We moved in late September from my in-laws’ house to a daylight basement apartment about an hour away. Bonus: it has a huge, huge yard for the kids to gallivant in and for me to have a garden. A real life garden! And not in pots!
We also lost another child. The last post was about expecting number 5 (again). We were happy and excited. All seemed to be okay as we passed the 12th week (the danger zone for our previous two miscarriages). But, shortly before Christmas, our little James was born at 16 weeks, already dead. We buried him in a cemetery nearby, one that has Handsome’s family in it. Am I okay? No, not really. But, also, yes. I can go through my day dealing with whatever madness my hellions throw at me without breaking down into hysterics. But…you know…it’s also hard. Unexpectedly, it hits you that you had to leave your little one buried in a field. And you can’t hold him in this life.
But the winter is edging off, and we have hints of spring shining through. That will be good for everybody. The kids are restless to get outside and get dirty. And there is plenty of good, red Virginia soil to get dirty in! I remember that dirt was the bane of my mother’s laundry room when I was a kid. I’m not sure if she swore at it when we weren’t listening. I would.
Speaking of swearing, I had no idea that an ADHD 5-year-old boy could make me come so close to using choice words. I mean, seriously!! I do not swear! The worst thing I say would be “Oh crap, he screwed up!” But a few hours with that boy awake can do wonders in bringing out my inner sweaty, swearing sailor.
But, besides almost swearing, we’re good. We’re alive, we’re in our own home.
What more could I ask for?
I’m discovering a few things about being pregnant after 30:
It royally stinks.
Deep, huh? Okay, an elaboration would look like this:
I am soooo tired. I want to hibernate for the next 6 months. And then 6 more for good measure. My tailbone magically hurts and I blame being pregnant. As I chase my wild hellions around the house, I seriously begin to question my sanity. I mean, a mental institution is looking like the best vacation ever right now. I’m sure I cannot vouch for my intentions at 3am when I’m tired, hungry (again!), and dealing with the irish twins’ serial night terrors.
Whining aside, the pregnancy is going really well. ;)
But could we talk about how hard it is to be pregnant with an already ‘large’ family? Because I’m finding that harder than any of the physical symptoms. When you announce your pregnancy, everyone is surprised. The responses range from ‘Oh, wow!’ to ‘Are you sure you know how babies get here?’ Yes, folks, I have no idea where these other kids came from. Please, give me a run-through of sex ed. again! The most demoralizing are the variations of ‘Not again!’ Now, many comments are vaguely supportive but the background seems to be one of (mostly) polite disbelief. The majority of sincere ‘Congratulations!’ I have gotten are from friends in much the same boat as myself. (Hmmm…maybe it’s only sincere because we’re crazy together….)
Desperate for some kind of positive feedback, I have resorted to Walmart cashiers for congratulations. They’re mostly restrained by societal convention: if they think I’m crazy, they do it in their own head. And I get my much-needed support for my life choice.
Yes, life choice. Mostly that terms floats around alternative lifestyles. Well here’s a newsflash about this lifestyle: I choose it. I choose to be a mother of 5 or more children.
This does not mean I’m a saint, a martyr. Believe me, if someone tried to give me a ‘Mother of the Year’ award I would take off running in the other direction. No one knows their flaws and imperfections like the mother of so many children.
But I’m not stupid, crazy, or an idiot either. Much of the negativity I feel seems to focus on the assumption that my husband and I have no idea the difficulties we’re in for. Of course not. After living with family for two years and barely scraping by in our own place, I have no idea the difficulties another mouth and set of arms will bring. Yes, the emotional, physical, and financial toll gets worse with each child. Especially for an ADHD, depressive mother with Fibromyalgia married to an ADHD husband with ADHD children. Believe me, I know the toll. I live with it every day.
What is the point of this cranky, pregnant lady rant? I’m tired of the negativity. This life that I’ve chosen is hard enough; I deal with my own demons every day (not just the ones I birthed). I can’t handle the burden of your disbelief or shock on top of that. I won’t carry it any more. Call it pregnancy hormones, but this stuff keeps me up at night.
Since I need my sleep, here it is:
My Pregnancy Manifesto
I’m pregnant. It’s number 5.
And please mean it.
I am socially inept.
I am uncomfortable in social settings because I just know that I will say or do something stupid. I obsessively analyze recent social encounters to check for said stupid things. And if I did do something stupid, I will anguish over it for the next ten years. True story.
It seems that the place I feel most comfortable is here, writing. It’s a social situation under my control. I can check and double-check what I say. I can even make sure my grammar and punctuation is correct. A decent bonus, I think.
You know what’s funny? I highly doubt it was because I was homeschooled. Because that lasted a year and a half. Then my mom went on bed rest and we ran off and played all day and she sent us back to public school. I didn’t know how good I had it.
Doubtless it’s connected to being a military brat. Moving from place to place ever so often. Having to start over with new friends, classes, cliques, and houses. But we were fairly stable for a military family, not moving every single year. In fact, we stayed a respectable five years in one location. As a child, I cut ties fairly quickly; I looked ahead to starting over. I hoped it would turn out better than the last time.
Maybe it’s because I’m weird. Social awkwardness is comorbid with weirdness right? I enjoyed school. I was good at it. I even liked my teachers. Growing up with brothers I was an odd mix of princess and tomboy (ask me sometime about the imagination game where I was a guerrilla undercover princess). I loved climbing trees and playing outside. I also loved twirly skirts and curling up with a book. But as I grew older I retreated more into books. They were safe and undemanding.
But I think I’m just a socially awkward person. And weird. Definitely still weird. And perhaps I didn’t push myself to grow out of it. The socially awkward part. I love being weird.
And I’m okay with it. Mostly. But I just wanted to let you all know. Because sometime in the future I will do something stupid. I will say something completely random or seem really insensitive. I will forget things like phoning you when I promise. I will read your email and only ever answer you in my head. I will do something to help but it may not be what you need. And it will seem like I don’t care enough to try to be a good friend and not embarrass you in public.
But I do try, every time, to do better. And I am doing less stupid things every time. And when I do do something I will probably realize it 10 minutes later and obsess over it for weeks or years. But I’m learning to let that go too.
In the immortal words of Stan Lee, I strive to ‘Excelsior!’ That’s Latin for doing better. :)
Thanks for loving me anyways.
P.S. After I wrote this, I read this wonderful article that made me feel immensely better:
Maybe I’m not the crazy one?
Yah, right. Who am I kidding…
Right now I’m listening to Laura’s CD from her violin book. She has been so blessed to have the chance to learn violin. We are so grateful to those helping make this possible. And I think it’s worth every penny for one reason: behavioral changes.
Right now, Laura needs achievements. She needs to see progress. And since we’re holding off on starting school until we move next week, her progress revolves around her violin. As we push, shove, cajole, and threaten to get her to practice, she stores away each evidence of talent and hard work.
Honestly, though, I was nervous about her taking it up. Not that it’s a bad thing, but I remember my younger brother starting violin when I was in 6th grade. While I’m sure he enjoyed it, and has enjoyed the opportunity to fiddle (pun so intended) with one since then, let me tell you: it was painful. If someone tells you that bagpipes sound like tortured cats, don’t believe them. It’s the amateur violinist that sounds like he is running his own feline Gitmo in the other room. I love my brother, but at 11 years old I made sure to stay as far away from his practicing as possible. To my pleasant surprise, Laura was not nearly so screechy. While I admit that my hearing could be a) biased as her mother and b) dulled by years of screaming children, I think she has a talent for this instrument. I love to sit and watch her practice. She sits on the piano bench or cross-legged on the floor (ala Lindsey Stirling) and her fingers move confidently over the fingerboard, the bow smoothly passing over the strings. She’s not perfect but she’s pretty darn good for her age.
Anyways, behavioral changes. Laura has some anger and mood issues we’re constantly working on. Some of it is working out with age, but to anyone who is struggling with a special needs child, I would jump up and down yelling “Get them an instrument!” She is happier, calmer, and more…centered. Again, she’s not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. But she’s better. Part of that is the homeschooling I’m sure. But in a period of two days earlier this year when she participated in two performances of “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”, I had a perfect child. No, seriously!!! Somehow that public affirmation worked magic.
I love magic.
As I listen to this CD, I think of my little girl learning and growing. I hope she is feeling like she has a place in this world and that she is already doing so much that is good.