“No TV this morning? Really?”
“Yup.”
“How come, dad?”
Didn’t pay the bill.
“I don”t know. Happens.”
How dumb. For once, I could have paid ahead of time. Had the money. But, I’ve become used to not having enough. I wait for a service provider to threaten me or to cut me off. Then I negotiate. Stressful, time consuming but the only way to manage scarce resources.
“I’m sure it’ll be back by this afternoon.”
“But what about now? I can try to fix it, dad.”
“Trust me, it won’t work.”
“But what do I do now?”
“It’s only an hour, kid. Have breakfast, feed your cat, pick your nose and by then we’ll leave for day camp.”
“But it’s more boring without the TV.”
“You’re an addict, Noah.”
“What’s that?”
Reassuring ignorance, I guess.
“When you have no more control and you absolutely have to have something or do something or else you go nuts.”
“Like a smoker?”
“Like a nine year old TV viewer.”
“Haha, dad. That’s irony by the way. It’s not really funny.”
“Just find us some good morning music for breakfast.”
He grumbles his way to the sound system which is surrounded by several hundred Cd’s. Without even looking he shrugs his shoulders.
“What do I put on, dad? I have no ideas.”
“Turn on your brain and have it tell your fingers to search through the pile of discs and lo and behold something magical will happen.”
“Yeah, right, all of a sudden a fairy will like go poof! and appear and what… like, grant me three wishes?”
He’s so bitchy I feel like bitch-slapping him. Instead I remember the Prime Rule of Parenting: flee.
“Whatever, Noah. I just asked for a little music. You can figure it out if you want to. I’ve gotta make your lunch now anyways.”
I move to the kitchen to consult the fridge. Suddenly, music blasts from the living room. Of course.
“Noah, lower it, please. It’s 7 in the morning.”
The volume goes down to a reasonable level. It’s one of his favorites…a compilation from a Canadian show called Next Star: a kid’s version of American Idol.
Noah comes charging in.
“Dad, dad, we’ve gotta find out when are the auditions.”
Tuna sandwich. Carrots. Applesauce.
“Sure.”
“No dad, really. Seriously. This year I really really want to go on the show.”
“Next time you’re on the computer, find out the audition dates in Montreal. But if you really want to go, you’ve got to rehearse and get really good at your song.”
“I already know what I’m going to sing. And I know all the words.”
He starts shaking and moving.
“When you try your best, but you don’t succeed
When you get what you want, but not what you need
When you feel so, so … Awww…how does it go after that, dad?“
“Fix You by Coldplay. Love that song, but I don’t know the words.”
“Can we like find them on the Internet and print them?”
“Sure.”
As soon as I pay the bill and negotiate service.
“Now?”
“No.”
“Awww-unh.”
“Now that’s a good choice.”
“What?”
“The Awwwww-unh song. A real hit. A Noah original. Oh, and that’s irony. ”
“I know. I’m not dumb.”
No. Just bitchy.
