“No, no it was okay dad. Mr. François was okay, he laughed and then you know what he said? He said, uhm, he said, ‘Noah, that’s so 2010. Great one, uhn dad? Yeah, he really cracked me up.”
“That’s so 2010…that is a good one.”
“So 2010, hahahahahaha…”
His belly button bobs and weaves with his mirth. He has a very outsy outsy one. It popped out when he was a few weeks old, courtesy of a hernia. Nothing to worry about, but he’s had a half inch handle ever since. His Mother insisted it was my fault because I let him cry too hard.
Never once bothered him like it probably would have bothered me at his age. In fact, I worried that he would become self-conscious. Never happened. And now, as he grows and his abdomen muscles get stronger, the thing is beginning to recede back into his body.
I stare at it as it expresses Noah’s mirth. Maybe it’ll pop back in. And I can send a picture to his Mother ‘Yes, it popped out in tears and popped back in through laughter.’
But that’s so vindictive …so 2003.
“Dad, look, now like I can reach the uhm, milk in the fridge, look without being on my tippy-toes.”
Tippy-toes, that’s so six year old. Damn, how that would insult him. I hold back, to my credit. I used to go for the punchline no matter what. Lost some friends that way. Though it bedded me a few beauties. Women like nasty smart. But I’ve grown up.
Caustic is so ‘before Noah’.
Noah is filled with good intentions this morning. Wants to help because my back is blocked. Last night I saw an osteopath who jumped on my back like a sumo wrestler on fermented rice in an attempt to unblock my back ribs.
This morning I’m paying the price, in the hope that the pain will disappear during the day.
“Dad, I can pour your coffee for you.”
“Thanks so much for helping me out, kid. But I’m afraid you’ll get burned. Look.”
My moka pot is whistling in a plume of burning steam.
“Ouh, yeah that’s hot alright. You know dad that, uhm, the smoke…”
“Yeah, yeah, the steam, like it’s hotter than boiling hot water because it’s you know a gas, like.”
I can see the milk carton slipping from his hands.
“Noah, pour out your milk before there’s an accident.”
“Oh yeah sure, dad.”
The kitchen table with a glass on top is just high enough to force him to raise the carton uncomfortably high. It’s a two liter container, so it’s pretty heavy. He totters, grunts with the effort. I’m about to step in to help him.
But that’s so yesterday.
He finally pours the milk, in fits and starts, but remarkably into the glass.
“Good man…. not one drop wasted.”
“I’m big now, so yeah.”
He turns on himself, and attempts to hold the carton with one arm while opening the fridge with the other. Thinks better of it. He puts the carton down on the table, opens the door, grabs the milk, spins around and pushes the thing onto a crowded shelf before slamming the door shut. The stuff inside rattles violently.
He turns and smiles at me a little sheepishly. I smile back a little wolfishly.
“Unh-huhn. Close but no disaster.”
“It’s 2012, dad. Yup, yup…”.
He jumps in the air and lands in a dance step that has taken the world by storm, like riding a horse.
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, Gangnam Style…Uh huh, uh huh, Gangnam Style.”
I hop and skip and join him…Gangnam Style.
“Dad, dad, your back.”
Damn, it’s sore but remarkably loose.
“Back pain, that’s so yesterday!”
“Good one, dad…oh yeah oh yeah.”
We ride across the apartment like wild Korean horses.
Gangnam Style! So now!!