Tag Archives: singing

startled…

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…by me

“Dadddy daaaaaddddyyyy-OOOOO-dadddyyyyy—–OOOoooooo, you’re the best daaaaadddyyyyy-oooooo I eeevvvverrrrr had. O yeah…”

He’s singing my praises again. Cute little tune, too. Kid’s got talent.

“I’m the only daddy you ever had.”

I feel like an impostor when he says I’m the best. I wonder whether he feels compelled to please me, seek my approval.

“Oh the oooonnllyyyyyyy daaaadddddy I eeeevverrr did have…the only dadddyyyy I could eeeevvvverrrr wiiisshhhh for, oh, yeah, shiboom, shiboom.”

He didn’t skip a beat.

He’s dancing, boom-boxing and air-scratching. A triple threat. I watch him and there’s not an inkling of anything dark in his face and body. He’s having fun and telling me he loves me in his inimitable way.

“Waaatccch out what you wiiiisssshhhh for, shiboom shiboom….”. I croak like a nasty cross between Dylan and Freddie Mercury.

“Ooohhhhhh yeeeaaaaaahhhh, I wiiiishhhh my daddy was haaaaaappppyyy, because I am happppyyyy because my daaaaddaaaaddaaaaddadadadddddyyy is the best….oh yeah.”

Damn.

Does my sadness fertilize his joy? Or is he joyful despite my daily struggle to survive myself?

I’ve spent his lifetime so far, wondering exactly how I would screw him up. Perhaps through some unintended alchemy of my screw ups and my insufficiencies he’s growing up happy and able.

“Ohhhhhh yeah I have I have I have the bbessssttessstt sooon ever, oh yeah, baby, oh yeah.”

There once was a wonderful African singer called the Goat because of his voice. I’m channeling him.

“My dadadadadadaaaaadddddyyyy can’t siiiinnngggg, oh no, but he’s the best oh yeah, the best daaaaaaaadddddyyy.”

“I can’t sing, but I’m haaaappppy, oh haaapppy to be me,because of yooooouuuu…”

He doesn’t miss a  beat.

“….becaaaaaaauussseee of yoooouuuu”,  on key.

“….becaaaaaaauussseee of yoooouuuu”,  off key.

Together now……

“….becaaaaaaauussseee of yoooouuuu”.

Strange and beautiful harmonies of discordant pain, past and present… and melodious joy,  present and future.

One more time….with feeling.

“….becaaaaaaauussseee of yoooouuuu”.

“….becaaaaaaauussseee of yoooouuuu”.

 

 

 

 

fer sure…

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…it bleeds

“Oh yeah, a scrape on my knee , oh yeah, a scrape on my heart, oh yeah, its bleeding, my my….”

He breaks off his singing. The words suck, but his tune is pretty good. Somewhere between Cee-Lo Green and Celine Dion. Catchy.

“…dad is a heart like you, know, uh like the same what do you call it the stuff that we’re all made of …yeah, you know!?!”

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

And he launches into the chorus.

“Ohhhhh.what’s the question, oh yeahhhh, what’s the question. Scrape on the knee, Scrape on the heart, oh yeah, my…..  is bleeding.”

He stops singing, “You see dad…what’s this, you know this stuff.”

He pinches his forearm.

Odd.

Its his knee he scraped pretty gruesomely while flying on his scooter. He lost control, trying to show off how good he was, competing with a girl on a bike. At 8 and a half there is already the drive to impress.

“Skin.”

“That’s it dad…you’re good. Oh yeah, scrape my knee, scrape my heart, I’m so sore and my skin is bleeeeeedddinnnggg.”

The tune is catchy, all right. But should I tell him that the heart and the knee are not the same stuff…skin.

“Oh yeaaaahhh, baby, (sings the 8yr old midget), I go on my knees … my heart skin bleeds…oh baaaaabbbyyyyy…my heart skin bleeds”.

Heart skin. His knee skin is raw, full of dirt and gravel, bleeding. It happened a minute ago. Yet he didn’t cry, scream or panic.

He started singing. About Heart Skin.

“Does your knee hurt, Noah?”

“Fer sure…hah! did you hear how I said that, dad? Fer sure….that’s funny…Fer sure, baby, fer sure, baaaabbbby, my heart skin bleeds fer sure, baaaaabbbbby.”

Better than a howling kid, clutching his bloodied knee on the sidewalk while the non-parents cycling by throw vaguely accusatory glances to the irresponsible parent you must be.

Ouufff!

“Fer sure, baaaabbbbyyyy, I bleed fer you…”.  As he scoots home on his scooter.

Fer sure, the heart skin bleeds. And, fer sure, it makes fer a good song.

Fer sure.

 

 

 

 

the blood…

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…of fathers

Noah rubs his head against my arm, like a feral child.

The last few days he has been all over me. Crawling over my chest when I’m sitting, pulling my hand when walking, escalating my back and climbing my head at every opportunity.

And he has not stopped talking except to sing and hasn’t stopped singing except to act the dancing fool.

I am already a conquered kingdom, invaded by the arrogant necessity of childhood.

Now, I am reduced to fodder.

“Dad, dad, I have  a question.”

Number ‘way-too-many-already-and-its-only 7h35′ question.

“What time is it?”

Time for you to shut up, stop moving, be still and let me breathe.

“What are we going to do, today?”

“Aaaaarrrggghh.”

“I’m just saying.”

*?&?%$@#?$&?%#@&*%

I say nothing for fear of saying what I’m thinking.

Last night I actually watched reruns of “memorable” golf tournaments on Blah-Tv.

4 a.m. is not prime time.

I always felt as if my Mother had given me life just to suck it out of me slowly. I was her doggie bag, to feed her anguish and appease her hunger for misery.

Now its my kid’s turn. He’s sucking me dry. But this time I’m a willing victim, though I protest.

He’s a super developed leech. He exhausts me. Sometimes I just want to scrape him off and lick the wounds.

But in the eight and a half years since he’s erupted into my life, he’s sucked out a lifetime of  toxins from my blood.

Painful.

So I fight. To preserve the comfort of my accumulated anger and sadness.

“Dad? Look, I invented a new song.”

My Mother was a child who had lacked emotional nourishment and needed to feed off her children to survive.

My boy, on the other hand is growing beautifully, gorged by my lifeblood.

He is infecting me with his rage for life, his pleasure, his ravenous desires.

Later, we will howl at the moon. For now he’s singing a new composition.

“Good song, hunh dad?”

“Great song. What’s it called?”

“The title is um, ‘What’s that Doo-thingy in your hand’ …”.

Cool. I will stop playing with my doo-thingy and join him in a wild dance.

“Once more with feeling, Noah.”