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three dreams

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Sometimes getting up is hard to do.

The alarm shrills at 7 a.m., as usual. Feels like it’s still the middle of the night. So I tell myself, five minutes more. I turn on my side and instantly find a wonderfully comfortable position. One that eluded me all night, as I tossed and tossed, prey to some existential anxiety. Or maybe it was the midnight cinnamon bun.

Five minutes later, I push myself up and grab my phone. Damn! It’s 7:22! Longest five minutes in history. I step out of my room and skip and stumble as the cat runs through my legs. I throw a kick that misses. It never connects. The cat is nimble.

Noah’s room is dark. I hear him breathing heavily. Nowhere close to being awake. The cat stares at me significantly, then at Noah, then back at me.

“Sorry, fat cat, feeding you is Noah’s job.”

I head to the kitchen. I remember that yesterday, I bought freshly ground coffee. A good morning already. I put on the pot and bring the plate of muffins to the table. Something stirs in Noah’s room. I look in.

He’s doing jumping jacks and stretches and squats under the impatient gaze of the cat.

Wow! Waking up at almost 10 years old is a whole different thing.

I return to the kitchen to pour him a glass of milk. When I head back, the cat runs through me again at full speed and in full meow.

For good reason. Noah is back in bed. It’s 7:35. We have to be out the door at 8.

“Noah, are you awake?”

He doesn’t respond but I can see the hidden smile. Parents are really good at seeing what’s hidden. So I tickle his bubble butt through the blankets.

He squirms and giggles. He opens his eyes, all pleased. Good way to start a day.

“Good morning, Noah.”

“Hi dad.”

“Sleep well?”

“Oh yeah, like a dead log.”  Mangled colloquialisms are one of my kid’s specialties.

“But dad, I had like big dreams.”

So did I, but then I grew up.

The cat jumps up on his bed to within an inch of his nose. A clear request. Noah pets her lazily. Despite her hunger she closes her eyes and twists around. She ends up surfing on her head in total abandon.

“So dad, it’s like this I had a dream that like I woke up and it was like 6:01 and so I fell asleep again then I, uhm, I woke up again and it was again 6:01 and then  like it happened again and it was always the same minute. You know? Yeah. And I remember thinking, like in my dream, you know that I could live forever like this. Cool huh?”

The eternal life of a groundhog. What a destiny!

“So then I had another dream that I was walking with you and Melina and Vince and I was feeling really happy. Yeah, and you know the dream could have been, uhm, just that and it would have been great, you know?”

“No kidding.”

My hand is rubbing his back, his hand is rubbing the cat’s back. I wish some giant hand was rubbing my back.

“I love my cousins. I love you too, dad, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but my cousins like I can’t say it to them everyday, you know?”

“Sure.” Rarity seems to increase value, not just for precious metals.

“But then, dad, in the my dream? I bump my feet against something and it doesn’t hurt or anything but it’s a big box and I have to like unbury it you know?”

Unbury.

I like that. I have met the Unburied:  the already dead who just won’t let you be free. Memories of loves, dreams of being, violence never decried, wishes never granted.

“So yeah, then I open the box and it’s like an Aqua Blue Nintendo 3Ds, just like I want, and with 59 games, dad. Imagine. I was like Oh yeah! Oh yeah!”

“Oh yeah!”

“And then I was, boom, asleep again and when I woke up it was like in a dream again and it was Halloween. And I had the best costume ever. Cool night, huhn?”

“Sure was.”

“I feel great, dad.”

“Good dreams will do that to you.”

“Did you have a good night, dad?”

Busy night.

“I dreamt a lot.”

“And like, good dreams?”

“I don’t know. I can’t remember anything about them.”

“Wow! That sucks!”

Forgetting your dreams. Sucks?

“Dad, I remember everything I dream.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“What?”

“Come on, Noah. It’s time for breakfast. The cat is hungry.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Be happy!

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Quiet pleasures.

6:50 a.m. I am pulled out of a light sleep by sounds from beyond my closed door. The cat food being poured into the aluminum dish. Noises of comfort as Noah and his cat rise together. He talks to the animal like to a baby, “who”s hungry, yeah you’re hungry, yeah who loves you, yeah, I do.”

I hear his Sasquatch feet thump thump towards my door. I’m fully expecting it to be blasted open. A second, two, three go by… no Noah.

I rearrange my position on the bed to peek through the crack in the door. Noah is standing just outside, where there’s a full length mirror. He’s examining himself. He slicks down a cowlick which immediately kicks back up.

Futile.

Yet, he tries again with a little more insistence, but no better results. He hardly seems to care as he strikes one pose after another.

I lean out of bed and pull the door open.

He freezes in a sexy look.

“Looking good, Noah.”

“I do look good, don’t I?”

This kid is so unlike me in so many ways. In almost as many ways in which he is just like me.

He has a brash arrogance and doesn’t hesitate to find himself, smart, good-looking, talented. In that way he is my polar opposite. But at times it feels like he’s whistling in the dark

Being brash to avoid being seen for the fragile thing he truly is. In that way he would be just like me.

Or maybe he’s just self-confident.

“What time is it, kid?”

“6:55.”

“Great. Five minutes left. Jump in bed so we can hug.”

He rolls into my bed but stays at a little distance.

“Did you have a good sleep dad?”

“Really great. You?”

“Oh yeah, I slept like I was dead. And Ouaga stayed with me all night, like she jumped in just when I went to bed and started purring so yeah, she put me right to sleep.”

“Sweet.”

“Yeah, I love Ouaga. And you know dad I had such a nice day yesterday, You know it was really great. I mean I played on the computer all morning and then I started organizing my room for when we’re going to repaint it, yeah, that’s going to be so cool. And then I won all my three matches at the Pokemon tournament and got a full-art special X card, yeah and then we came back and had my favorite supper and then we saw two really good animation films together. I especially liked the first one about the cat and the burglar. It was exciting even without any special effects or 3D stuff, you know? Yeah. Wow! A really great day.”

I have always been suspicious of such easy happiness. A Fool’s Paradise? Then again. Have I spent too much of my life in a Fool’s Hell?

“Hey, Noah, there’s a couple of minutes left, and I would really love a hug.”

“How, dad? You’re lying down.”

He has a grimace on his face. It’s times like this that I wish I had a daughter. She would hug me without protesting, I’m sure.

But, she probably would be too affectionate. That would annoy me.

Finally, I must recognize that I have a hard time being happy.

Period.

“Dad, you know the best part of yesterday? It was like I didn’t like expect anything, you know so when it sorta happened, it just like happened, you know?”

The alarm goes off. I lunge for it. Noah jumps on my back to stop me. He laughs like a demon as we battle to the ‘pioup pioup’ of the alarm. That’s the equivalent of a boy hug, I guess.

I finally succeed in holding him off long enough to shut off the annoying reminder that it’s Monday and I have a hundred reasons to get tense and miserable.

“Ahhhhh, that was fun.”

He throws himself down on my bed and stretches luxuriantly. I’m about to tell him that we need to get up and and…

…and the hell with it!

I drop back down beside him. We stretch and groan and …

“Oh yeah, we have like gym today, dad, youhou, I love gym. Awesome… .”

Be happy! I admonish myself! Be happy dammit!

Noah vaults over me and off the bed in one slick move. He shimmies away, singing.

“I’m sooo excited, I just can’t hide it, oh, oh…”.

Be happy dammit!

 

 

The Bitch-o-drome

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“You’re ass is showing.”

Of course, I turn around to see where the loud voice is coming from. More importantly who is she talking to.

I’m on the sidewalk outside my boy’s sports’ camp, on the way to picking him up. A nine year old girl decked out in bike helmet, fingerless gloves and shiny spandex rider’s clothes stares at a woman crouched down at her feet. She’s busy straightening out the girl’s mud guard.

“Mom, I can see even your crack.” Her expression is a mix of outrage and revulsion, like a Nun at Woodstock.

Yes, I can see her ass, including the birthplace of her crack, attempting an escape from her shorts. Cute woman, nice butt.

Delightful.

She tugs at the belt trying to pull them up but the ying of her yang makes it so that the shorts go even lower.

Aaaahhhh!

“Moooommmm!!” The kid gives her parent a slack mouth, ‘are you dumb?’ look.

“Okay, okay.”

The mom gets up from her crouch and readjusts her clothes, shielding her deliciousness from view. She turns, attempting to see her back.

“How is it now?”

“All right….I guess.”

The girl’s tone drips with ill will, reproach and shame-inducing innuendo. Had she said ‘you slut’ to her mother it would have been the same.

As i walk by, I smile at the mom. She smiles back. Sweet.

Her kid stares at me. It takes every bit of my new found maturity to not stick my tongue out at her with a sonorous Naaaaaahhh! 

I cross the lobby of the sports center, submerged by the chirping of parents and the admonishments of their children. What is it with the kids today? Bloody reactionaries.

Noah is in the gymnasium, with a hundred other tired children. As I step in I can feel the crinkly electric energy.

Enter the Bitch-o-drome.

I wave to Noah, who is disconsolately kicking a soccer ball. He sees me but makes no move to get his stuff.

I wait. Prime Parenting Rule #12…. Shut up and wait!

Eventually, he drags himself to his knapsack and drags himself to where I am.

“Hey, Noah, how was your day?” I say with the sunniest tone I can muster.

“Eh!” He shrugs. I say nothing.

Prime Parenting Rule #19…Don’t engage if you know where it’s going.

Somewhere in the background, somebody starts sobbing. Sounds like a parent. I  imagine all the parents suddenly throwing childish tantrums. Might remind the kids that parents are human too.

“Dad, do this.”

He tugs at his shirt front.

“Why?”

“Because like you got all that hair like on the chest, yeah it’s all sticking out of your shirt.”

“Yeah, so?”

“It’s gross.”

“I don’t find.”

“Trust me dad. You really should like close all those buttons so it doesn’t show.”

“No.”

“Whaa…?”

“Number 1…My body, my clothes, therefore my choice. Number 2…you’re not a girl, girls like my chest hair, it’s sexy. Number 3..parents have feelings too!”

Jerk!

After having suffered my parents’ attempts at formatting me, now I should tolerate my kid doing the same?

“Yeah, but dad…”

“Are you going to say something nice?”

“Nice?” Imagine!  He looks lost.

 

“I don’t know dad. Is it nice, if I….”

“Stop! If you don’t know whether it’s nice, it’s because it’s nasty.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m old.”

“That’s nasty.”

“No, it’s what me makes such a wonderful parent.”

He looks up, uncertain how serious I am.

Parenting Rule #23…Fuck with their minds!

I stick my tongue out at him. “Naaaaaahhhhh!”

He shakes his head and walks away.

Prime Kid Rule #1…Ignore your parents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

diss…

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…is not right!

“Dad, those are new? They really don’t look good on you. You should take them off.”

“What? Right here?”

It’s 5 pm and I’m in the gym at his day camp.

“That’s just gross dad. Naked? Oh man. Yuck!.

You can certainly count on your children to reassure you about your desirability.

He parks himself in the crowd waiting for the elevator.

“Noah, let’s take the stairs.”

“I’m too exhausted,” says the brand new human.

I must admit the staircase to the exit is steep and long and narrow. Hard on the calves. But the elevator takes forever and already there are too many waiting.

“Noah, let’s just go.”

“Naww.”

Another parent, suffering his kid’s hard headed insistence on mechanical assistance, wants to share.

“They’re tired, so they’re not very reasonable, eh? And the stairs are hard.”

Oh, shut up! You’re fat and sweaty. I’m just sweaty. I mumble a half smile.

“Come on, Noah, if it’s not here by the time I count ten, we take the stairs.”

“Count to thirty.”

“One…two…three…” As I count I pop my fingers up.

The fat dad is watching with a smile of growing excitement.

“Twenty, dad, count until twenty.”

“…9…10… 11…12…. .”

Oh the excitement, the trepidation!

“..19…20.”

No elevator.

“Ok, let’s go.”

“Thirty, dad.”

“Come on.”

“Awww…”

Sweaty fat dad looks at my kid with adipose empathy.

I start up the steep stairs. Noah grumbles, but steps in beside me. By the time we exit on the ground floor lobby, my legs are singing in plaintive unison with my wheezing lungs.

“Dad, those shorts are really not good looking.”

He’s exacting revenge.

“Okay, Noah. You’ve already told me.”

“I’m just saying, but they’re really embarrassing. You should take them off and never, never, ever wear them again.”

“I admit. I’m not crazy about them, either. But they’re not that bad. And they were  fifteen dollars.”

“Yeah, but they’re too short. They look weird. And what’s this thing?”

He tugs hard at the cuff at the bottom of the leg.

“Don’t rip that!”

I slap his hand away. But he’s right, the cuffs are the problem.

“I agree with you, Noah. Maybe I’ll get Melina (my niece) to undo them and hem the legs.”

He gives a non-committal ‘humph’.

“Maybe.”

We head out on the sidewalk and the steep hill up to the park which we cross to get home.

Yes, at the end of the day, it’s uphill and steep all the way home. Noah is wearing a black cap and is churning ill will. He looks like a little black storm cloud waiting to thunder and tempest.

“How was the excursion, today?”

“Okay.”

Okay.

“Did you like the steak sandwich I made you?”

“It was okay.”

Okay.

The park is filled with dogs walking their masters, nuts rolling away from squirrels, and a jogger running backwards.

“Dad, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Do you, like, plan to wear those shorts again?”

“Yes.”

“Because, really dad…”

“Noah, you’ve told me four times already. Do you think I’m dumb?”

“Sometimes.”

I look down at him. His eyes have widened. I think that one slipped out. He looks at me.

“That was a joke, dad. Really.”

“Hmmm.”

I’m skeptical. But I keep walking. Parental Rule #4…keep moving.

“But, still dad, those pants…”.

“Stop it. You’ve been dissing me nonstop since I picked you up. Parents have feelings too, you know.”

“I know.”

“So treat me with the same respect I treat you.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

“But, dad….”

 

 

 

 

parents everywhere…

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…everywhere

“I don’t know anymore.”

She shakes her head. Has an expression which feels like the mirror image of my own confusion.

When I feel like I know nothing about raising my kid, I realize nobody knows anything about raising a kid.

Especially if they care.

She’s a distressed young mother whom I met in one of the cafés I frequent regularly. The one which I go to at the end of the afternoon when I allow myself to think of nothing specific, in the hopes that not staring at the target will allow me to see it better. Like when I was a kid, in bed at night, scared out of my mind. I noticed that if I stared straight ahead into the dark I could see more clearly on either side. So I never stared at what frightened me. I discovered later that it was a scientific fact….something about more light receptors in the sides of the eyes. But not before It became a method for a lot of things. Especially watching women.

Fear + physiology= philosophy.

“I mean they’re twins. The school tells me I can’t separate them, but I know that one of them is suffering. The other one is so dominant.”

She really is in pain. Doubt bites. Empathy swallows you whole.

“How old are they again?”

“They’re in kindergarten.”

I can’t help smiling. I take her hand.

“They’re 5 years old?”

She nods, sees my smile.

“I know, I know, I’m crazy right? Worrying about this when they can barely talk.”

Of course, parents are crazy. It helps.

“I think it’s beautiful that you care so much. But…”

I draw a deep breath and smile again. She smiles and breathes. Closes her eyes which allows me to watch her unabashedly.

Beautiful.

There is no real tragedy in her worry. Only love.

“Dad, you know about last night…” says my little boy sounding like the title to a bad date film.

“…yeah can we forget that I sort of, no, sorry, not sort of, but when I really did do the wrong thing and like continued on the Nintendo when you said I had to stop. Yeah, I don’t want to get the Nintendo back…it’s really not for that. But can we like forget about what I did?”

Our daily walk home from school is like a 45 minute session on a shrink’s couch. I only wonder which of us is the patient.

“No.”

“But dad…why?”

“Because I felt bad, you felt bad and that’s important. If it feels bad, it’s something you don’t want to repeat, right?”

“Yeah….!?!” He’s uncertain whether he likes where this is going.

“And Noah, I’m not mad…and I think you’re a great kid and I love you.”

“I love you too dad.”

It’s a red light so we hug. Good stuff.

“Dad, tonight when Alissa comes to babysit can we not tell her about why I can’t go on the Nintendo.”

“No, we’ll tell her. Nothing to be embarrassed about, Noah. Everybody makes mistakes. I’m sure she’ll tell you about some of her screw ups when she was a kid.”

He chuckles.

“Yeah, I’m sure she got into all sorts of trouble when she was like nine. I love Alissa, she’s like you know, part of our family, like she’s my cousin.”

“Whatcha say I get some sushi for you and Alissa, for supper.”

“Oh yeah, dad, the salmon…and the tuna…in you know those little rice things I like.”

“Maki.”

“Yeah, maki….it’s Alissa that like made me like them. I didn’t like sushi until she gave me those and then wow… now I love them.”

Wow.

He skips a little. He hadn’t skipped in days. Must remember to suggest to the sweet young Mother with troubled twins that they do a little skipping exercises.

Break away from gravity.

(P.S. Thank you to all the Mothers who have been sending me notes, love, support, suggestions. Though I’m an ass, I do appreciate it.)

 

 

bent head…

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…syndrome

“Yeah and that’s the new universe that they just like put out now in the stores, but before that, I forgot to tell, yeah, you know the ninjas, yeah you know there are four, the black, the white, the red, and uhhhmmm, the blue, so what you find out in the new universe is that there are really five, yeah and the fifth one….”

I make noises of surprise, approval, awesomeness in reaction to the unending chronicles of Noah’s discoveries. A serialized melodrama of Dickensian length.

‘Will it ever end’, I wonder.

“… so the green ninja is the one who brings all the elements together so they can defeat the Great Devour….”

‘Great Devour’ said with echo effect and hands fluttering to demonstrate it’s enormity.

I just hope he doesn’t quiz me, because I’m lost.

We’re walking back from the grocery store. I’m weighted by several bags filled with broccoli, rice, juice, milk, bread, meat, cleaning products and ice cream. Noah is strolling alongside me on his scooter.

I wonder whether his foot pushing his ‘vehicle’ is what motors his mouth or whether his mouth motors his foot.

“…yeah, and then there’s the Lord of the Snakes, dad, you know I don’t have any  snakes at all, but last time, like before Christmas, it was all about the Skeleton Army, yeah remember and I wanted soooo badly to get the skeleton warriors, remember? Yeah well it’s a good thing dad that I didn’t because the Ninjas defeated the Skeleton Army and the really cool bad guys now are the Snakes….”

The pre-Christmas assault on my kid’s imagination and his dad’s bank account was an all out campaign: psychological, nuclear, chemical.

I resisted, strengthened by my relative poverty. Thankfully, since now it’s all about Snakes…

“…what’s really cool about the Snakes is that they have feet…”

I’m not religious but if I was, I would fervently pray for deliverance. I stop, put down my bags on the sidewalk…stretch.

“Are you o.k., dad?”

“Yeah, it’s just the bags are heavy.”

“I can help, dad. Give me one of the bags.”

“They’re way too heavy, kid. Especially with your scooter, there’s no way.”

“Sorry, dad.”

“Thanks for asking, though.”

In reality, my hands are raw and my arms have stretched a few inches, but the real pain is in my neck….from having my head bent towards Noah and his saga. Sometimes, as we walk and he talks, I switch sides so that I can unbend my neck from one side and bend it to the other.

Bent Head Syndrome… should be recognized as a condition generated by parenthood. Painkillers, chiropractic treatments should be covered by insurance plans.

Like being a priest in an ambulatory confessional… make sympathetic noises, nod, half-listen, adopt a charitable point of view… parenthood is my priesthood. The only difference is that I do the penance.

We finally get home. Noah helps me put the stuff away in the fridge, on the shelves.

“…I’ll show you on Youtube, dad, there’s a new episode where it explains everything you need to know, and yeah, when they do, I’ll help you if you don’t understand…”

I’m putting the dishwasher soap in the the fridge. That’s not right.

Where did the milk go? I’m sure I bought milk, but it’s not in the fridge and it’s not in the bags. I check under the sink, since that’s where the dishwasher soap went.

“…dad, can I show you now?”

“Noah, not now…I lost the milk.”

“Awwww-unhhh.”

I don’t respond. I pretend he’s upset about the milk, but I know better.

Where’ s the milk? I remember having to drop the bags to unlock the door. I run down the stairs. A single grocery bag sits on the porch outside the door.

“Found the ,.”

“Great, dad.”

“That’s me…the milk ninja. Ah, wooooh, hah.” Accompanied by a couple of cool ninja moves.

“Not like that, dad.” He demonstrates the proper technique.

Later, I stand on my balcony, pleased that all is put away. I’ve still got hours before having to start supper. What luxury.

“Come on, dad, I want to show you the new Snakes, the one with feet…”

I see a parent walking on the sidewalk, beside her girl. I recognize the neighbors from two doors down. The Mother has the characteristic rubber neck of a good parent.

Another willing victim of the Bent Head Syndrome.

“…are you coming, dad?”

 

 

spring…

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…  BACKWARD, SIDEWAYS, FORWARD

“Dad, it’s like unbelievable. It’s like a pre-release for summer.”

Pre-release is the commercial termed used by Pokemon when they give the world the chance to buy the new card issues before the Official Launch. And kids like Noah get adrenaline rushes because…”imagine dad it’s like out before it really is out and you can buy it.”

So, yeah , the term annoys me.

“It’s called Spring, and we don’t need to buy it to enjoy it.”

“No, but like it’s so hot and, like, look at the sun. It really is like summer but way too early. So it’s a pre-release, get it?”

He’s on the balcony in pyjama taking theatrical breaths of fresh air.

It’s going to be 22 celsius (72F) today, so he’s right. I fight down the urge to bitch about Pokemon and try to focus on the sun inundating our balcony.

“Dad, can I wear my sandals?”

A blast of cold March air blows across us.

“No.”

“But it’s hot.”

“Just hot enough to catch a cold.”

Nice line.

“But dad…”

“No winter jacket, no gloves, no neck warmer and shoes rather than boots. Sounds like enough for one day.”

“Aaawwww…unhh”.”

His two-note disappointment song…  hits me right where the ancestral bitch lives. Reminds me of my own myriad disappointments. My mind flashes to my messy life, unwashed dishes, unpaid bills, unloved defects.

“When you’ll be old enough to take care of yourself without my help, then you can fall sick all you want.”

He growls. Probably how I sound to him. He’s smart enough to walk away. But then he makes a mistake.

“Geez, I can’t believe this.”

Hiroshima and Nagasaki both in my brain at the same time.

Ignore the comment. Let it slide. Be the adult.

“Aaaaawwww-unh. My socks hurt, dad.”

I don’t give a shit is the feeling that bangs against my teeth. I clench them. Say nothing.

“Daaaaadddd, I don’t have any good socks.”

“Did you check in your drawer?”

Silence.

“Noah…?”

“No, I did not check in my drawer.”

“Maybe, you should check in your drawer.”

Repeating the exact phrase avoids the addition of unfortunate expletives.

He rustles, grumbles, mutters. Showing me his anger, punishing me with his bad mood is inviting me to join the perversely reassuring dance of mutual aggression and recrimination.

I have done that often enough in my life. Had it done to me by adults, friends, lovers, haters…often enough.

Resist…despite the explosive anger burning my best intentions.

Shave, I tell myself.

I wet my face, spread the cream… install a new blade.. start scraping my face. Focus or bleed.

“Dad, this sock has a hole.”

Careful, the soft skin around the edges of my lips is particularly fragile. A little more cream.

Noah charges in, holding the offending sock.

“Look.”

If I look, I bleed and if I bleed … .

“Check the dryer.”

Grumble, mumble, mutter. Remarkable how a kid can sound like he’s swearing without saying a bad word.

He pulls out a sock, the wrong kind apparently.

“Aaaawwwww-unh.”

I’ve succeeded in scraping the left side of my face without major damage. Now the right.

The cat sashays into the bathroom and meows loudly.

“Aaaaawww-unh.”

“Meeeooooowwwwww.”

Scrape.

“Meeeoooowwww.”

Scrape.

“Did you feed the cat, Noah?”

It’s his job.

“Aaaaaawwwww-unh.”

I’ve succeeded in finishing. No blood.

I rinse and towel my face. No blood but razor burns over 50% of the surface. Very uncomfortable. And ugly.

“Do I have to? I have to find a sock.”

“I feed you, you feed the cat and the fish.”

I lean into the dryer and instantly pull out an “appropriate” sock. I resist the image that forms in my mind of throwing it at his face. Instead I drape it on his shoulder.

He looks up at me. I arch an eyebrow. He responds with exactly the same arched eyebrow. I do an eyebrow dance. He represses a smile. Eyebrow dances back at me. I tousle his hair.

“Come on, let’s get going. It’s really nice outside.”

I move to my room, try to remember what I need for the day’s work.

I hear dry cat food pouring into the tin dish.

“Yeah, Ouaga, you were hungry, yeah….here you go. You want some water? It’s a really nice day. I’ll leave the balcony door open for you. You like that, huhn? Yeah, you like that.”

 

 

 

simple stuff…

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“Did you sleep well, dad?”

“Yessir!”

“Great…me too.”

A porcelain whizz. Load the coffee pot. Slip Noah his antacid pill.

“Did you feed the cat, Noah.”

“Ouaga was still sleeping on my bed, so I didn’t want to wake her.”

He hops off the futon and skips to the bathroom. I hear the cat food pouring in the dish, then Noah rinsing the water bowl.

“Come here, Ouaga, yeah, I love you Ouaga.”

Meow and midget make noises of friendship and mutual dependency.

I stare at the coffee pot on the stove. It has no handle. I melted it down a few days ago when I forgot the pot on the stove. It got red hot. But I was able to salvage it…sort of.

Steam pours out of the joint in the middle, rather than extruding from the top as coffee.

Extrude.

Funny word. I’ve got to remember to check its exact meaning in the dictionary. I suspect I’m using it wrong.

“Dad, what time did you go to bed?”

“11:01 precisely. And I fell asleep instantly.”

In fact I fell asleep while attempting to construct a vague erotic fantasy starring a.. a… a… . I couldn’t decide what imaginary friend to seduce.

“And you got up at 7:01. That’s good dad, that’s uh, wow, eight hours.”

“And I didn’t wake up once.”

“Me too, dad. Ouaga was so nice. She spent the whole night with me. I like opened my eyes only once and she was there at like the end of my bed. Yeah, I like it when she stays there, because you know, if she comes up to me like right here you know, right under my face, when I’m sleeping…yeah, I like need to breathe so, without doing it like … without wanting to do it, I like move and she leaves and then I wake up and I’m alone and I don’t like that.”

Ah! The coffee is extruding from the top with that delightful “raaaaaahhhh” sound of satisfaction. I wrap two dishtowels around it in lieu of a handle. Gotta go to the dollar store and buy an oven mitt.

In lieu.

Cool expression. I love it when English steals from French and is too lazy to even change the spelling.

Lazy …my kind of language.

“Dad, I’ll feed Crownsey (his fish)!” He runs off to his room, humming something vaguely recognizable. .

My patchwork of dishtowels is ready. I tip the coffee pot and pour out into a bowl. The towels are too hot within seconds and I’ve only got a few thimbles of the dark gold in the bowl.

Now what! I look around for something else to wrap around the burning metal.

“Hallo Crownsey…how was your night? Did you sleep well? What time? Yeah, you look all sleepy. Here you go. Come on! Time for breakfast.”

Breakfast!

I find a clean bowl and pour cereal and milk…one clean spoon left in the dishwasher.

“Noah, breakfast.”

“Dad, Crownsey is so funny the way she just like curls up in that big shell, yeah it’s like her cavern, you know.”

He sits and works at submerging every floating cereal.

Sink and bob.

If I was a famous motivational guru I would draw a wonderful lesson:
Life is like a bowl of cereal… no matter how often you are pushed down you will always bob back up.

Cheerio!

But since I’m am obscure dad/writer/filmmaker I turn my attention back to my coffee pot without the handle. Has the metal cooled enough to handle?

Hmm! Handle without a handle.

Another life lesson. Damn if only I was Oprah, I would become rich and famous with all these epiphanies.

No, if I was Oprah I would already be rich and famous …and a caricature of true life lessons.

“Dad, can I have another bowl of cereal…I’m starving.”

“Right away, master!”

I pop and jump and skip and hurry.

Noah is smiling.

“Dad, I like it when you’re in such a good mood.”

Yes, I am in a good mood. Why? I could evoke a  whole host of reasons. An inventory, a list, a compendium.

Compendium. Another sweet word.

“I love you, dad.”

“I love you, kid.”

There you go. As simple as that.

Now if I could only write some of this stuff down … I could be Oprah or Doctor Phil or…

 

 

 

 

sex and…

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…SOCKS

“Boy, I’m good-looking.”

Noah is in underwear, on bent knee considering himself in the enormous mirror we have leaning against the wall in the corridor. He has that veiled sexy look that works on a 20 yr old but is a comical caricature on a 9 yr old. To his credit he’s playing up the comedy. He licks his fingers and pretends to slick down his eyebrows.

“You know what, Noah?”

“Yes?” He looks at me with arched brow.

“You want me to be brutally honest?”

“Hmmm?” He’s ready to dismiss anything I might say.

“You really are good looking.”

How’s that for a surprise. He goes wide-eyed, like a kid.

“And you’re smart and generous and considerate.”

“Really?”

Now he looks like a 3yr old being celebrated for having dropped his first load in the toilet.

“Absolutely! Now, since you’re almost naked, you should change your underwear.”

He pulls them down and kicks, so that they go flying through the air and land on  the cat’s head. The beast meows in irritation and scurries under the couch.

“Bullseye!” says the boy.

“Catseye!” says the man.

“Hahaha” say the primitives in unison. I stop laughing abruptly, stare at him.

“But, but…..”.

“Whaaaa…”

“But, but, but…” I repeat, pointing at him in horror.

“What, dad?”

“You’re butt is out.” And I pounce, fingers snapping together like crab claws.

He howls, runs on the spot for a moment like a Looney Tune character trying to get away, before finally taking off at breakneck speed.

Over couch, over futon, under table, through the living room, wending and weaving…

…and sqealing…

…he stays just a micro centimeter ahead of my pinching claws.

“Stop, stop, ahhhhhh, uncle, uncle….”

I finally relent and stop chasing.

“Ouffff, you’re crazy dad.” He walks away, for protection.

“That’s part of my charm.”

“No it isn’t!”

He pulls on clean underwear. As it slips over his legs and over his butt, the front  part snags his male appendage and blocks. He grabs either side of the elastic and jiggles it, playing puppet with his penis. Of course, it stiffens. He bangs at it with his finger, considers it for a while. He slips the underwear over the offending member… stares at the bulge, pushes it down, to no avail.

He knows that a guy’s penis goes into the gal’s vagina and lays a seed in her egg which then becomes a kid, or a chicken, depending on whether you’re doing drugs. But his “thingy” is still something curious that does not connect to anything for now. He throws himself down on the bed and starts doing dolphin leaps on his stomach.

He’s forgotten all about me. Ah! the power of love!

I sneak away, then call from my room.

“Noah, are you dressed yet?”

“No, dad, I can’t find my pants.”

His white lie is accompanied by the rhythmic squealing of his bed springs.

Sex and Lies and…

“We have to be out of the house in five minutes.”

…Haste.

Will cost him a fortune in Tantric Sex books to slow himself down when he’s an adult. But for now, we have a school bus to catch.

The mattress stops complaining.

“Dad, I have no clean socks.”

“In the dryer.”

I hear him rushing through the house. He breaks into song. A rhythm and blues.

“Socks in the dryer, oh yeah, socks in the dryer….I got socks in the dryer.”

Sex and Song and…

…Socks in the dryer!

Sounds good to me. Anybody else!?!

 

 

 

Time to…

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..tell it like it is

Yesterday was a bitch. Though it started well enough as we walked to his day camp in the morning.

“You know, dad, that girl who was there last summer, yeah, the one I liked? Yeah, she’s back. And you know, now I’m almost as tall as her. Cool hunh?”

The rest of the day was bright and sunny and warm. In a northern city like Montréal it means lakes of soiled water covering ice patches as the snow melts and flows down the streets and sidewalks gathering the accumulated salt, gravel, garbage, and dog byproducts.

I am, for some reason, in a state of extreme physical fatigue. Every morning, for the last week, I wake up more tired than the eve.

Yet, I slogged through the day, did my work, smiled at the smilers I crossed paths with, avoided the frowners, did grocery for supper, bought Noah’s antacid meds. Throughout the day, I never once succumbed to my body’s desire to just lie down and stop.

At the end of the day, I start back towards the day camp. A half hour walk where I consciously jump cheerily over the murky sidewalk swamps, slide across the ice, twist my torso and pump my arms. All to stay awake, alive, balanced.

“Hey, Noah, how are you? Good day?” He leaves his group in a corner of the gym and floats towards me like a dark little storm cloud.

“Are you ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, dad.” Oops! Not a happy day camper.

I wait in the locker room as he gets dressed. He is uncharacteristically silent. Each glove, each boot weighs a ton judging by the effort it seems to require. By the time we leave I’m losing my hard won equanimity.

I resist.

“Hey, Noah what you say we go for hot dogs today? It’s almost spring. Let’s make it special. This way we can enjoy the sun.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

I can hear the wind and noise and thunder rumbling in his little head.

I avoid responding. Keep walking, I think, that’s the plan of the day to stay okay.

“I’m anxious to go back to school. Day camp is boring and my animator is not any good. I think he’s the worst animator of the whole camp.”

He says this when he’s several paces behind me. I slow down even more from the snail pace I’ve adopted already.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” Shit, he’s even annoyed by the question. Really?

I go back to my snail pace. He falls back. I hear sighs.

I avoid responding.

Sigh, sigh, SIIIIIIGGGGGGHHH.

I slow down again. He catches up. I see the face which matches the sounds. Sour, disgusted, annoyed. He’s practically walking on his ankles since he hasn’t laced his boots and they’re yawning, tongue lolling.

“My left boot is full of stones.”

I lean down. He hangs on me as I remove his boot and empty it… a little gravel tinkles onto the sidewalk.

I lace up his boots.

“You know who asked whether you had the time to go see him, today?”

Dark Cloud looks at me. He’s interested, but being in a funk is more delightful. He shrugs. I fight down the vomit of anger I would project at him.

“He said, ‘woof, woofwoof, wooof, woooooofff !’ “.

“Oh, Joey.” Blasé, bored.

Joey is a big black beautiful dog that loves Noah and that Noah loves back. He is a future seeing-eye dog that a friend is training and who spends hours under the table at the café where I write.

I cross the street. Noah is paces behind me and so slow that the light changes to red when he’s only half across. I rush back out and drag him to safety as the intersection fills with vehicles.

“Noah, what the ….?” I crouch down to his height. Face to face.

“I don’t know what happened, I don’t know what is going through your head. But hey, get over it! I’m just as tired as you. More. You complain about the long walk to Day Camp but I do it four times, not two. Two hours out of my day. Your day wasn’t perfect? That happens. But it’s not my fault. So don’t punish me. It isn’t anybody’s fault. Live with it. It’s beautiful weather, we’re visiting Joey, going out for supper. Lots to enjoy.”

Little Black Cloud has gone even blacker. I can see the thunder and lightning in his eyes. His brow furrows though he is wrinkle free.

I get up. My body hurts. “Give yourself a shake and de-funk.” I walk away and hear him shuffling behind.

We get to the café. Joey yelps in delight when he sees him. The two hug and kiss and make animal noises. We walk him around the block. He dumps two loads which I insist Noah pick up. He groans, moans but loves complaining about the warm load steaming in the bag in his hand. We return the beast to his owner. When we leave and walk by the window, Joey stares at Noah all the way. Noah blows him a kiss.

We stop at the grocery store for a liter of milk. I slip a dollar into the hand of an old man begging.

As we wait at the cash register I admire the purchases of the lady behind me….a particularly fine quality pasta that I never buy because I can’t afford it. As we leave, the lady spontaneously slips a box of the pasta into our bag.

“For the two of you.”

Outside, Noah’s hand slips into mine.

“Funny, huhn, Noah…I give the homeless man some money and an old lady gives us a gift of food. Generosity always comes back.”

“That’s karma, huhn dad?”

“Exactly, my little man.”

“People are good, aren’t they dad? I mean, not everybody, but a lot of people.”

His hand tightens in mine.