…a witch’s butt crack

“Dad, it’s the middle of the night. Why are you up.”

“I had to pee.”

“Daddy, you should go back to bed.”

Amusing role reversal.

“It’s 6h30, Noah, time to get up soon anyways.”

“But it’s so black. Look, dad, there’s no like you know, sunrise or anything like light in the widows. Freaky.”

“Winters coming, the days are shortening.”

“Imagine, dad, how freaky cool it would be if, yeah, we would go out when its dark and everything is open. All the stores and things are open and we go to learn at school, but at night.”

“Would be weird.”

“Yeah, but cool.”

As I warm his glass of milk, he stares down his breakfast pastry. He takes a mouth-filling bite and stares at it again.

He splutters a few flakes as he talks.

“And imagine, dad, La Ronde, yeah with you know like the ferris wheel but ooouuuhhh, nobody is on it….yeah and the like game, uh, uh, …”

“…stands…”

“…yeah, there’s nobody at the game stands but its all moving. Like ghostly like.”

He licks his fingers. Master of his pastry.

“And like, yeah, there’s a freaky park where the round thing is turning and the swings are swinging and its night and noooooooo one is theeeeerrreee. But something freaky scary is about to happen. AAAaaaaaaaaahhhhh.”

The sun is slowly rising but with little effect. It is really a very dark morning. The first after Noah’s one-day suspension from Grade Three.

Climatic commentary on my state of mind?

Aaaaaaarrrrggghhhh! I need to understand why he disrupts his class, why he doesn’t follow instructions, why he can’t sit more than a few minutes at a task without going wild.

“Feels halloweeny, eh dad?”

“Yup.”

“Dad, is there something wrong in my head?”

Love the way this kid just sucker punches in the balls at the most unexpected moment.

“Why do you say that?”

“You know, because I’m like a bad pear at school.”

My little frenchified pseudo-anglo mixes his colloquialisms.

“Noah, you’re brilliant. To quote your progress report, ‘Noah performs to a very high standard…”

“..when he wants to.”

“When you focus. Plus you sing on key, play the piano instinctively and you draw like you were born with a pencil in your hand. You’re smart and full of talents.”

“Really?”

“You know that.”

“I forgot.”

“Come on, time to get dressed for school.”

“Oh, yeah…it’s still super dark.”

He drops pyjama pants and underwear and runs naked to his room. He proceeds to holler. Poor neighbours.

“Daaaaddddd….I forgot, tomorrow is aaawwwweessssommmme. You know why.”

“Don’t scream Noah, I can hear you.”

“OK”  just as loudly.

“Tomorrow, there’s a show by this kid or not really a kid. I think he’s like old like a young man. Yeah, we learned about him in hip hop class. Yeah, he’s coming to our school. There’s something wrong with his legs. Like he was born like that. His legs are all small and weak. And he does breakdance and does spins and everything but with crutches. Sooooo cooooll. We saw a video of him. He’s called Luca Lazylegz. And he’s Italian like me.”

Noah may have something wrong with his head.

His Mother does, navigating on the other side of the ocean between the wonderful lands of Schizophrenia, Psychosis and Paranoia. And I am certainly “particular”, to be charitable with myself.

But I have no doubt that whatever is going on with him, we will solve and he will be fine.

Like Luca Lazylegz.

Even if today is as dark as a witch’s butt crack.