Noah’s new song is a rap hymn to the best in humanity.
“Yo man, peace for me is peace for you…yo, make love not war, man…”
Channeling Lennon and Lil Wayne. He’s doing a moon walk and watching himself in the mirror.
I have the privilege of a 6 a.m.private VIP concert.
He does a few ‘yo, man’ moves, ending in a dramatic pose, one arm pointing straight to the sky. His head drops in a solemn moment of. Now he’s John Travolta in ‘fever’.
Solemn silence broken only by a rapid sonorous expulsion of gas.
He holds the pose, unflustered.
“Sweet song, huh dad?.”
“Noooo….fart not included. It’s just that I had to poo and I had to dance because I was like you know, inventing the song, live, in my head so if I went for a poo, I would like, eh, have forgotten, you know.”
He runs off to the bathroom. I hear a new music, of grunts and groans and gaseous leaks.
“Sooo? Did you like it dad?”
I really did.
Plop. Fizz. Grunt. Groan. His production continues.
This week is going to be tough. For the first time, Noah is going to be tested by a Pedo-psychiatrist.
His lack of discipline and focus at school feels different than a regular 8 3/4 year old finding his way.
Since his Mother went AWOL with Borderline Personality Syndrome and/or Schizophrenia, I have had my ear to Noah’s heart… like an Indian tracker listening for the coming herd with his ear to the ground.
He is a singer, a drawer, a performer, a grimace factory.
Like me, minus the song. I sound like a toad in love when I sing.
So, he may just be an exuberant delightfully expressive personality, making discipline and outside structure a challenge.
His Mother’s illness is a hereditary possibility, not a necessary destiny.
But I need to be vigilant. So Friday, we go for a battery of tests. Hopefully revealing nothing but normal development
Noah would not have existed if I had not fallen in love with a mad woman.
What a loss to the world that would have been.
So, whatever happens Friday, I will celebrate my boy and his original mind.
I look up. He’s at the bathroom door, toilet paper trailing from his butt crack.
He farts very loudly. The paper floats a little ‘on the breeze’.
“Hahahaahaaaa.” He disappears into the bathroom, picks up his rap song.
“Yo man….fart for peace, ha….did you hear that dad? A like, Fart Rap. Hahahaha…Dad?”
Dad is listening. Dad is watching.
“Wipe you butt, otherwise it’ll be your friends rapping, ‘Yo man, smelly man, oh yeah smelly man….’ ”
A loud flush.
“Wow, you really caaannn’t sing, dad. You’re so bad.”
No. I can’t sing. But it’s a love song.