Tag Archives: school

R.E.S.PE.C.T.

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“Dad, dad … .” 

As I step into the after school daycare, Noah runs at me.

“Dad, I got a gold star.”

“Really?”

The day care lady nods and gives me an impressed look.

“Yeah, Miss Anita gave it to me. Because like it’s the end of the month and uhm at the end of the month, like this was for the first month, yeah, so what month did we just finish, dad?”

“September.”

“Yeah, so for September, I’m the one that got the star, you know.”

“Great, Noah, good going. But what was it for?”

He’s been acing everything since the start of the school year, so I’m fully expecting it to be for academic performance in French or English or Math….

“Respect, dad.”

“Huhn?”

It’s because I’m a writer that I’m so articulate.

“Yeah, dad. I got a gold star because I was like the one, the student like in all grade 4 that was the most in respect.”

“You mean the most respectful?”

“Yeah, full of respect, that’s me.”

A sparkle in his eye, a smile worthy of a tooth-whitening commercial. The boy is proud.

I’m shocked.

Not because he’s not a sweet, courteous kid. But because he rarely is that, at school. Discipline, staying still, listening, not clowning, Tough. The last year was all about helping him to respect the rules, the work to be done, others’ space. Daily exchanges of evaluations and strategies with his teacher, progress reports, rewards and loss of privileges etc.

It all seemed to have a very temporary effect.

“Are you telling me that, of all the Grade 4 students, you are the one who showed the most respect the whole month of September?”

“Yeah.” He looks at me with anticipation.

“The month of September which is the toughest month because it’s the first one and all the kids are still in summer party mode?”

“Uh, yeah !?!”

He’s gone a little still.

Suspense. A writer’s major weapon. Even bad writers.

The daycare lady has stopped listening to the lament of a skirt tugging six year old, to tend her ear in our direction.

I drop down on one of the pint sized stools. Stare at Noah. He’s totally in my power.

“Wow,” I say simply.

“I know, right dad? So cool, huhn?”

“Sushi-cool.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that we’ve gotta celebrate with a crazy, gut busting, massive sushi party.”

“I loooooooovvvveeee sushi.”

He closes his eyes and throws his head back in delight.

The daycare lady breaks into a grin and turns her attention to the whiny skirt-puller at her feet.

“Oh, and dad? I did all my homework.”

The daycare lady nods in confirmation.

“Great, so tonight after we fill up on sushi, you can go on your DS and blast a few virtual enemies.”

“But dad, it’s Monday. Wednesday is like my Nintendo night.”

“I tell you, kid tonight is special. You earned it.”

“Really?”

It absolutely slays me when he’s so surprised that I praise him. As if he somehow can’t believe he’s a good kid.

But he holds doors open for strangers, apologizes when he bumps into somebody ad even runs to help old ladies, mothers with babies, smaller kids.

He is a bloody GREAT kid!

“You know, kid, what is sweet is that they’re finally seeing who you really are? And you’re a really really really really great kid.”

I’m overwhelmed by a wave of emotion as he hugs me on my baby stool.

“Thanks dad, you’re great too!”

“Come on let’s get out of here and get our party going.”

“Okay dad.”

I’m about to break into song and do a crazy dance. I know if we’re outside Noah will join in.

I feel like doing the old standard R.E.S.P.C.T but Gangnam style….

Oh yeah!

 

it’s summer, so…

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“Dad, like I’m anxious to go back to school.”

“Really?”

We’re barely two weeks into summer.

“Yeah, because like they’re all my friends at school. It’s like Friend Central. You know what I mean?”

“Sure. I also remember that the last few weeks of school you couldn’t wait for the summer vacation.”

“I guess.”

I know. He busted my gonads every day about how tired he was of school and homework and classes and this and that and everything.

“How many months is summer, dad?”

“As in how long is the summer vacation?”

“Yeah.”

“Almost exactly two months.”

“And how many months is school?”

“Duh! Use your brain, Noah.”

He arches a brow at me.

“If you know the answer, dad, why don’t you just, like, tell me? It’s so much easier. You know?”

“Brain fail brain fail brain fail.”

I grab my head like I was experiencing a brain freeze.

“Stop it, dad. I get it.” He looks around to see if anybody was watching.

We are crossing the park on the way back home. There are couples necking on blankets in the sun. Others are necking in the relative cover of trees and shade. A juggler is running after his balls as they roll away. Bikes zip around like mosquitoes. A big-breasted creature in an ill-fitting bra cradles a kitten between her bosoms… something about milk, I guess. A group of homeless men and women scour the garbage cans and the grounds for returnable bottles and cans, like survivors of a holocaust. A typical day in the park. Nobody is watching me. Everybody is way too busy furrowing through their personal burrows.

“So, Noah?”

“When does school start?”

“The last few days of August. So start with September.”

As we walk, he pops out a finger, “September…”. He pops up a second finger. “Uhhhh….”. He looks up at me, sheepishly.

“You don’t remember the months?”

He shakes his head.

“Did you ever learn them?”

He shakes his head again. I immediately jump him, roll him on the gross and poke him until he is totally liquefied in giggles bordering on the insane.

“Uncle, Uncle, Uuuunnnnnccccllleeeee!”

I relent. He catches his breath.

“You’re nuts, dad.”

“Yeah, but I know the months of the year.”

I get back up and brush off the grass. I’m mostly dressed in white, so the roll on the lawn was a poor choice. I’m now white and green and white and green and white and green, like a punchline waiting for the joke.

“Come on, Noah. Time for your lesson.”

“Awww, dad. It’s summer vacation, like there is no homework.”

“You said you miss school, so…Today’s lesson: the months of the year in English and in French.”

“Whaaaaa…?”

“Come on, you’re nine and a half. It’s just memorizing. Easy. Repeat after me. January, February, March…”

“January, February March…”

“April…”

As I rattle off the months and he repeats after me, I store, for further consideration, the information that my kid, who sometimes acts like a world weary forty year old doesn’t know such basic things as the months of the year.

How come?

I am suddenly assailed by doubt.

“Noah what’s the day after Tuesday?”

“Ehmmmm…”. He looks up at me with that same sheepish look.

“You don’t really know?”

He shakes his head and smiles in full buck-toothed rabbit glory.

Damn! This is like an illiterate man who hides his inability all his life by faking it. Or an unorgasmic woman who goes “ouh-ouh-ouh” at the critical moments but never gets off. And never will, because she won’t admit the truth.

“Yay…Summer School for Noah.” Sung to the strains of School’s out Forever.

“Oh, My God!” he says.

“Yes, that’s me.” I say. “So, repeat after me. January, February….”.

No bloody way my boy is going to be illiterate and unorgasmic….in anything!

 

 

 

 

 

school’s out…

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…forever

Ah! Alice Cooper…crazy, unapologetic rock anthems. Nothing better. 

“No more pencils, no more books, no teachers. no dirty looks…”

Nothing better, except for my long legged, long-toothed 9 year old belting out an Alice Cooper rock anthem.

“…school”s out for summer…”

Even sweeter is joining him.

“…school’s out forever….”

And going nuts in unison.

“Dad, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you really don’t sing it well.”

“Yeah, I know, but who cares…”

I raise my voice even more in a perfect impersonation of a goat braying an Alice Cooper rock anthem.

“That’s sooooo bad, dad, stop, please stop.”

He jumps me, tries to block my mouth. Little midget still needs a few years of oatmeal before he can silence me. I stick my drooly tongue through his fingers. He immediately pulls away his hand.

“Oh gross, daaaad…”

I don’t waste a moment.

“What would you do if I sang out of tune, would you stand up and walk out on me…”

Without missing a beat, he stands up and walks out of the room.

“What? You don’t like John Lennon?”

“You’re no Lennon, dad.” he says loudly, from the next room. “So I walk out on you….oh yeah, oh yeah, sing out of tune and I’ll walk out on you…”

Lennon Rap…perfectly in tune. Talented little annoyance.

He runs naked across the hallway, into the bathroom. He’s got the cutest bubble butt.

“School’s out, oh yeah, shout it out, school’s out…” He mixes the lyrics with the sound of him peeing. Total freedom. Two guys. Noah and me.

“What’s that song, Noah.”

“It’s like the new version of your song except it’s cooler because it’s like a party time song, you know.”

“I gotta move my body, I can”t take it anymore,when the bell rings, I’m outta here…”

I join in.

“When the bell rings…”

“Dad, please, you can’t sing.”

He’s frowning at me, buck naked arrogance in full show. Since I’m the adult in the room, I give him a noisy, full tongued, spittle projecting Bronx cheer. He gets sprayed.

“Geez, dad, what is it with you? So gross.”

“School’s out, Noah.”

“Not for you, You don’t even GO to school.”

“It’s a state of mind, kid.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means it’s a way of feeling, a way of thinking…school’s out so let’s go a little crazy, have some fun, you know?”

“I don’t really like it dad, when adults go crazy. It’s a bit freaky.”

“What’s freaky to me is how kids are sticks in the mud.”

He sticks his head in the dryer, looking for clean underwear. His bubble butt sticks up in the air, beckoning a parental slap. Especially, since he’ll take it badly if I do. I sneak up. He suddenly rears up from the dryer and drills me with a look.

“Don’t you dare, dad.”

Caught! I giggle, as I always did, as a kid, when I got caught, no matter whether or not I was really guilty of anything.

“What?”

“You know.”

Geez, he’s already in training for parenthood.

“Okay, okay.”

I move into the kitchen. He may have the attitude of a parent but it’s still me who  makes lunch.

“Dad, I don’t really feel like going to the day camp today. It’s like the first day of the summer.”

“Gotta work, Noah. And you’ll have way more fun with a bunch of kids at camp than with me.”

He wants me to be serious but only so far.

“Seriously dad…”

Hah!

“…I could like, stay home and you work and I play on my DS, you know.”

“No. Sorry kid.”

“Aaaawww-unh.”

His habitual two note complaint that plays on my guilt and my rage. I focus on frying an egg.

He’s moving slowly, with ill will. Damn! I’m going to have to hustle him along in the parental meme that drives me nuts…get dressed, brush your teeth, feed your cat, find a cap etc etc.

I breathe. Remain silent. Slap the egg in a sandwich.

Fifteen long minutes later, he drags his morosity down the stairs. The walk to day camp is going to be long. So much for the joy of ‘School’s Out’. He reflexively reaches up to the mailbox. The mailman came early. There’s an usual green envelope.

I immediately recognize his mother’s handwriting. His mother who went crazy for real and is in and out of psychiatric wards in Belgium.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t like me going crazy, even for fun.

He stares at the envelope. “A letter from your mom, Noah.”

An usual event. He’s had no news from her in a year.

“Oh. I’ll open it up, like, at the end of the day. Okay, dad?”

“Sure.”

We walk side by side in silence.

“So how does that new ‘school’s out’ song go?”

“Dad, do you promise not to sing?”

I respond with a fat lower lip and feigned ill-will. “Yeah, okay.”

He starts dancing… helps with the words I guess.

“Shout it loud, school’s out….”.

As he sings and shakes, a smile slowly comes back to him. His rabbit teeth look ready to bit into something.

Hopefully his life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mmmm…

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…mmm

Today was a Perfect day! signed Mr. Aaron. 

When I pick up Noah at the end of the school day he has a ‘cat ate the bird’ look. The same look that Sylvester the Cat has in the rare instances when he’s swallowed Tweety Bird. Generally, it is just a moment before something terrible happens to him.

Hard to know if Noah has good news or bad news. He has been getting in trouble in school lately, so it’s always a toss up.

Noah is holding something back. We begin the walk home. He’s hopping with trepidation.  Half a block later, he stops suddenly.

“Dad, dad, I absolutely have to show you something.”

“Here?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“School related?”

“Yes.”

He drops his bag in the middle of the sidewalk. The rush hour tide splits around us.

“Noah, I prefer getting home first so we can look at stuff properly.”

“Dad, dad, I gotta show you.”

All I see for the moment are papers and notebooks and pencil cases about to explode on the sidewalk. I look for a refuge and spot a park bench that has not yet been removed in the city’s undeclared war against loiterers, like me.

“Come.”

I grab Noah by the collar and drag him and his bag to the bench.

He’s hardly noticed, so engrossed is he in his mission. His toque is askew, his sweater and his coat are open and flapping in the wind. Sometimes he looks so small, like a fevered mite struggling for space.

I sit on the bench beside his bag, Now I’m at his height. He hands me  a sheet of paper.

It’s his Daily Progress Report instituted by his teacher (see post: No Passaran!). It chronicles his efforts on a number of dimensions like listening, working, respecting…M is for doing the right thing Most or all of the time, P for Part of the time.

He’s been getting lots of P’s and a rare M. And the occasional detention.

I unfold the paper, fully expecting Tweety Bird to flutter in my face.

I see M’s everywhere. Every dimension, and there are eight on the report.

I look up at Noah. He’s wide-eyed, expectant. His mouth, filled with a charmingly crooked mix of baby and adult teeth, is stretched in the widest of smiles.

“All M’s !?!”

“Yeeeeeeessssssssss.” So loud that for a fraction of a moment the whole city seems to go quiet to pay attention.

“And look at what he wrote, here, look, here, dad.”

His rainbow stained fingers, colored by the day’s arts class, poke at the paper.

A handwritten note.

What a pleasure to learn with Noah, today.

I look at Noah. He’s nodding, bobble-headed with an adrenaline rush.

Today was a Perfect day! signed Mr. Aaron.

“Wow, Noah.”

“A perfect day, Dad!” Excited disbelief.

“And how does it feel?”

“Grrrreeeaaaaaaaattttttttttttt !!!!” My lion cub roars.

I hug him. Just the right height.

“How did you do it?”

“I did like you told me. On the bus, like, this is what I did. I told myself over and over. M’s I want M’s, only M’s I hate P’s, No excuses , No limits, Only M’s. I went like that all the way to homeroom. Man, dude… sorry, dad, I was sooooo concentrated. My brain was like phoooosssshhhh! a laser. Cool huh dad?”

“Hyper-super-mega-giga-maxi-cool.”

“Hah.”

He’s dancing on the spot. I feel like Ginger Rogers to his Gene Kelly.

A perfect day. A challenge to all the days to come.

 

No passaran!

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“The no matter what principle.”

“The what?”

Noah gives me a slack jawed, ‘what the F…are you talking about now’ look.

“Not the what. The No Matter What.”

“Dad, you know you can be like sooooooo annoying!”

This, as he takes a bite out of his delightful cranberry/lemon muffin and sucks his warm milk….courtesy of the ‘oh so annoying!’ dad.

“Me, I will explain to you more slowly with puppets so that you, not very quick this morning, can understand…hokey-dokey?”

He turns to me with a dead-eyed fish look that confirms how annoying I am being.

“The ‘No matter what’ principle, the ‘No excuses, No Limits’ principle, the ‘No Passaran’ principle. All the same thing.”

“The No Excuses, No limits, I know that one, Dad, that’s Luca Lazylegz who says that. I’m the one who taught you that, remember.”

“Yes.”

Last week, Luca Lazylegz, a break dancer with atrophied legs and crutches fired up Noah’s school with his amazing moves and with his auditorium exploding chant, “No Excuses, No Limits.”

” ‘No Matter What’ means the same. No matter what happens, no matter what anybody says, no matter what your impulses are, today, at school you get all M’s.”

“Hmmm.”

He picks out a cranberry from his muffin and stares it down like I probably stare him down when he’s misbehaving. He flips it into his mouth.

Noah has been having a hard time with discipline and listening to instructions at school. A daily progress report chronicles his efforts on a number of dimensions…M for doing the right thing Most or all of the time, P for Part of the time.

“Dad, you know like I try everyday and I got like 4 M’s and only 3 P’s.”

“And today aaaaaallll M’s, right!?!”

“Yeah, I’ll try.”

“Nope.”

“Whaaaaaa…!?!”

“You won’t try. Today, you’ll get all M’s, kid. No matter what, even if you get bored or your brain pushes you to do something or you tell yourself, oh it’s not perfect, but its ENOUGH…you’ll give it everything, no matter what and get MMMMMMMMMMM’s.”

“Hmmm… .” He is not sure.

Neither am I, of course. But it’s worth a try.

I was up at five this morning, battling the waves of anxiety… the meme of sadness, death, uselessness, fear passed on to me by generations of over-wrought Italians. So I channeled the Spanish Civil War instead. I repeated like a mantra, the resistance fighters’ cry, ‘No Passaran!’, they will not pass, as they fought the murderous Fascist troops.

By the time Noah woke, I had held back the mind assassins and was winning the siege.

“If you get thoughts that push you to do something that you know is the wrong idea, Noah, you tell yourself ‘No Passaran!’…its Spanish for ‘They will not pass’.

I tell him the heroic story of the Spanish Civil War. Make a mental note that I’ve got to introduce him to George Orwell. Animal Farm, a great book to start his political education.

“No Passaran!, nice,” he says with senior citizen wisdom as he vacuums the muffin remnants off the tablecloth.

“But dad, I prefer No Excuses, No Limits, I don’t want to like, insult you, you know, but yeah I prefer that. It’s more like, modern you know. Sorry.”

“No Excuses.” I pump out with force.

“No Limits.” He hollers in a shockingly loud shrill Minnie Mouse voice.

“All M’s.”

“All M’s.” He confirms.

If I was blond and cute I could be a cheerleader.

Better! Dark and sexy like a revolutionary Passionara.

 

 

Dark like…

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…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.

accidental…

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…rebel

“He did what?”

“He spit on his Science teacher.”

“No!”

“Oh, yes.”

I’m shocked but strangely not surprised. Noah is argumentative, contradictory, hard headed and unwilling to bend to authority …sometimes.

Noah’ s principal is harsh, unsympathetic and strict … sometimes.

But, I know Noah is a good kid , empathetic, loving, emotional, sensitive…. sometimes.

“What does he say happened?”

“He says it was an accident.”

“You can’t spit by accident.”

Of course, as soon as I say it I know it to be only partially true.

“He probably meant that he didn’t intend to spit. He was spitting angry and it came out.”

The principal looks at me as if she now understands the source of his bad behavior. A withering look.

I wither.

Noah got into an argument with his Science teacher because she was going to put a bad note in his agenda. A bad note which he then would have had to explain to me with the obligatory speech and consequences.

He thought it was unfair, argued with her and became spittingly angry. Literally.

He didn’t wither.

And he got suspended for a day.

When I went to get him at daycare he was shaking with tension and fear. Enormous cinematic tears rolled down his cheeks, unheeded.  When I spoke to him, his voice was weak and he was unable to form full sentences.

My kid is afraid of my opinion. Afraid to lose my love?

Later, at home, we spoke. I was quiet. His chin vibrated with the effort to keep from breaking down and sobbing.

Eventually, he lost the battle with his grief.  I held him until it subsided.   My Mother died recently, I remembered that she was also his Nonna.

Grief.

“I feel like a mass murderer dad.”

“You made a mistake, Noah. Everybody makes mistakes. What’s important, now?”

“To not do it again?”

“Yes, to learn. Anger is an emotion that can lead to scary consequences if you don’t express it at the right time, in the right way and for the right reasons.”

Bloody Hallmark phrases.

The  channels of the mind are obscure. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to manage my rage, my despair, my occasional joy. And trying to act appropriately.

Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I fail. But I always learn something. And that’s the victory.

I’m a hedonist of being. Not a hedonist of having.

My boy does not wither when he’s confronted with opposition. When he feels dissed or when he feels its unfair.

Don’t kill that. Channel it. Plenty of real injustice to be fought in the world.

“Is your life unfair, Noah?”

“No.”

“Are the adults in your life, me, your teachers, your family are we unfair to you?”

“No.”

“Anger, Noah, can be very valuable. When you need to fight injustice. Real unfairness.”

“Like when you told off that guy who almost ran me over? Remember, dad?”

Yes, almost jumped on his back and ripped his head off.

Hmmm.

“Yes, I was defending your life… but I probably went too far in telling him off.

Ugh. The hardest is coming facing to face with what you excuse in yourself and refuse to accept in your kid.

“Don’t fight the people who care for you, Noah. Defend somebody weaker or fight for people you love.”

Hallmark. Hallmark.

“You’re a good kid, kid. Just act that way so the world will know who you really are.”

“Ok. dad.”

He wipes his nose on my sleeve.

My rebel looking for a cause.

 

 

 

of lice…

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…and men

“This is the school calling, something has happened…”.

All those bad news calls sound the same in the first few moments. Your whole being goes silent, expectant, trying not to imagine. “Something has happened …” can change your life forever.

“…if you could come and get Noah, he has lice.”

LICE !!!

I was gearing up for tragedy. Lice is not even an illness. It is just an enormous pain in all the regions, nether and superior.

But am I relieved he’s not dead, or broken or very ill?

Nope.

What? Me? Celebrate? Be grateful?

Nope.

Instead my mind goes into a “oh no, something else to deal with…I can’t do this… I can barely do the regular stuff… no, no, no, no” panic mode.

Luckily, I’m having coffee with my sister who has been through the “lice wars” with her children. She raises an authoritative hand. She’s seen it all before. The lice in her kids’ plush hair and in her own had luxury condominium lofts.

“He only has a few nits, those are the eggs. He doesn’t have any walkers yet,” the phone voice tells me.

My sister nods in appreciation. When she had to fight them, not only did they have walkers, but they had a whole circus acrobat lice family.

She reassures me. It’s a simple war that is waged with great success if you’re determined. Crew cut for Noah, wash or bag EVERY PIECE of clothing he’s been in contact with, including bedding and give him a medicated shampoo.

But first, she inspects my head in the car. Lots of false positives since I have a dry scalp. Nits fake dandruff.

The news is good. I have no eggs, no walkers, no jumpers. The only thing colonizing my head is the realization of how fragile I have become.

I once strode the world, filled with the belief that nothing was beyond me.

Now a handful of lousy bugs blow open my world.

Pick up Noah at the school office, where all the kids are lined up heads down as the daycare ladies finger their scalps looking for entomological invasions.

“Got one,” rings out every few seconds as they pinch one of the six-legged culprits.

The scene is comical. Noah actually looks pleased. Its an adventure.

We go to a barber, the kind that still has the turning striped pole.  Noah gets a crew cut with a lick on the top.

“Dad, I look awesome.”

Back home, he checks himself out in the mirror while I wash, bag and fumigate the couches, the mattresses and sanitize everything I can.

Two hours later.

We’re scarfing down pepperoni pizza (delivered, a treat) and enjoying gross out internet images of nits, lice, and other assorted parasites.

“Dad, they’re like prehistoric animals. So cool. Look, this one I’ll call Nitzo, yeah. Don’t like change pages I’m going to draw him and he can be like you know the arch nemesis of you know my superhero, yeah, Lezardo. Remember?”

I rub his round little ball of a head. Feels like a walrus now that his hair is short. He enjoys the massage. Giggles.

“I love you dad.”

“I love you, kid”

The men have won again…lice of the world, and all other vermin, beware….

We Will Survive and Prosper.

 

 

 

 

songbirds…

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…tomatoes and bananas

Everything becomes a song to Noah. Everyday.

“Oh yeah, school starts today, oh yeah huh huh I’m so excited, oh, yeah!!”  ala Adele singing “The Deep”.

“Look, Dad, new moves…”.

He twists shoulders, bops his head and spins elegantly.

“Cool, no?”

“Yes.”

Difficult for me, these days. I’m always on the edge of a nasty tantrum. Ready to explode.

Small things.

Noah’s joy and total excitement usually brings me, at the least, some amusement. His creative curiosity often focuses my attention. Helps me see, and have an appreciation for, the small things.That are mostly wonderful.

Instead small things wound me.

I walk by the fruit store. The price of bananas is 49cents a pound. My mother loved bananas, if the price was right. 49 cents is a good price.

Then I remember she’ s dead.

The wonderful vine tomatoes are ripe but she won’t be making her lemon juice, olive oil caprese salad.

She’s dead.

Even though I love tomatoes and I could live on bananas I avoid buying them.

I would probably puke them out.

She’s dead.

And I can’t find the tune that would make it anything but a sad song.

“Dad, it sads you that Nonna is dead?”

“Yes.”

“Sad, oh yeah, sad, its sooooo saaadd, for my poor dad…”

His hand reaches for mine as we cross the street.

Sad song for daddy.