Half Cleveland Dad

Fog, Reality, Death, Swinging

A thaw after a chilly week made for a foggy couple of days.  Sweet Potato and I went out to see what there was to see.

I think Sweet Potato's anxious expression over the dead possum had more to do with her earlier observation, daht possum has reao shahp teet-th; izzy gohn-eenta bite us?, than a soul-opening encounter with the concept of mortality, although, walking back to the car, she first said, I'm dead ... and you're dead, too.

A neighbor once surprised a possum in his yard, and it flopped over in simulated death -- it played possum.  So at first I thought this possum might only have shorted out.  But it was too cold.

The day before this, Sweet Potato bent over a flower pot in front of our house.  Look!  Lookaddat!  It was her small beanbag bear.  It's Beah!  She felt bad that he'd been outside for many days.  He'd been buried in a snowdrift, and was grimy with the thaw.  I said I'd wash him.  Noooo!  I wandta seep widt him in my bed! 

Waking Up

Sweet Potato sloughing off a nap.

 

Winter morning commute

This is the interesting part of my morning commute.

It's great here in the snow.  Grimy, stark motion below; above, an ambient, soft, winter grey.

One morning a storm was clearing, moving north.  On the right, an intense winter sun poured horizontal light through a small cataract of blue sky, but to my left, it was still swirling night.  Ahead, the city was sharp and bright against the black sky, and over the lake gulls glinted like tumbling gold.

 

Serenade

Sweet Potato is attached to her things.  The things she picks for one event or another are important to her; or, rather, picking them is important to her.  On Sunday she decided to take her new harmonica to play on the car ride to the zoo, and to provide this interspecies busking service. 

 That big monkey wants to hear me!

When we left the house she tucked the harp in the pocket of her orange jeans in kind of a cool way, like a 60s British blueser, say, Eric Burdon or Rod Stewart.  Wheh's my cuhmannah'gah? she asked each time we got in or out of the car, patting herself down.

Breakfast

Sweet Potato knows that we're supposed to wake up at six a.m.  Once she figured out how to tell whether that first number on her clock is a six, she started coming into our room at 6:03 (my clock must be three minutes faster than hers).  At first, she’d stand next to my bed and whisper, Da-ahd, iss six!, waiting for me to get up.  Sometimes, I would lift her into bed, so I could wake up a little more gradually, without her standing there tugging on the lamp cord and whining.  A couple of times, on weekends, I fell back asleep, and so did Sweet Potato (Beeb the Mom, for her part, does not fall back asleep at six because she is asleep until seven-thirty or so).  Now, Sweet Potato pads into our room at 6:03, bearing three Loveys.  She gives the jingly one to Beeb the Mom, rounds the bed, and hands me one, before climbing in with hers.  The other morning I whispered, dude, let’s just get up and change your nighttime diaper and go downstairs and have breakfast!  She whispered, No I’ne guhnn havva big nap!  Then she started squirm-cuddling, which is her equivalent of a dog spinning around before lying in bed.  I endured the scratching and kicking and nose wiping for a few seconds, and whispered, dude, let’s get up now!  She got still, and whispered quietly and slowly, nohhht yehhhht.  Then she fell asleep.  I got up.  She woke up about 45 minutes later, when I was about ready to leave the house.  She said, noooo!  who’s goh-eeng ta mehk my behk-fiss toast?

We won’t always be able to have breakfast together.  Here’s what it’s like at this sweet time in our lives.

Here's the last few minutes: 

 

 

Sex Killer

I ran into a woman I used to like, and we spent the morning in the park by the river.  We went back to her apartment in the Bronx, where she changed into a slender crocheted robe or tunic, over a thin cashmere sweater.  Seeing her in those clothes gave me a very open, warm, happy feeling.  We were having a cup of tea on her sofa, but I wanted to smell her closer and closer, and pretty soon we were doing that kind of make-out exercise where you’re shifting and stretching a little at a time, trying out different touches and different feelings.  She took off her top, and she was as beautiful as ever.  From the sofa we ended up on her rich carpet.  I was brushing my lips across her velvety clavicle and cupping my hand down her waist, anticipating her supple croup.  Her hip wasn’t quite where it used to be, though -- it was too high up.  And a lot narrower than it used to be.  I raised my head to look at her.  Luisa had turned into a small toddler -- maybe 18- to 20-months small.  Her top was still off, but now she was wearing some kind of Nickelodeon p.j. bottoms.  My hand was still near her bottom, so I touched it to see if she was wearing a diaper.  I felt funny, but I was worried about the rug.  Her adult voice transmitted into my head telepathically:  What’s the matter, baby?  I pushed myself up, sat on the rug, and grimaced at her.  The kid had kind of a colicky expression.  I shook my head and said to myself, this is the worst dream ever!

***

 

It’s hard to maintain an adequate adult relationship with a toddler around.  At this point in toddlerhood, Sweet Potato wants direct attention from each of us, and she sort of polices the attention flowing from Beeb the Mom to me or from me to Beeb.  When Beeb and I are alone and we try to have a conversation, we automatically have to cover our missed chores or errands first, then move on to updates about Sweet Potato to avoid blaming each other for nothing.  That’s why, lately, when Sweet Potato’s asleep or we have 10 seconds to ourselves, Beeb and I just try to do it.  I mean, do what we can.  You know, when two people are sitting next to each other on a bench, and they both reach down at the same time to pick up something one of them dropped, and jostle each other a bit -- that’s the level of carnal intensity we generally kick up.  But it’s friendly, and loving, and it beats the shit out of nagging each other about who's going to go to the basement and put the wash into the dryer.

 

So the other afternoon Sweet Potato is taking a nap, and Beeb and I are on our bed, reaching that stage in middle-aged foreplay where the woman complains, no! no! no! I have to keep my hiking socks on!, and the man is wondering what's happening with his boner -- when, BAM!, Sweet Potato wallops open our door like a cop, and starts saying You keep dis doah OPEN! Ahh dehr way! You unnah-stehn me? OKAY?  You keep dis doah OPEN!  Doan khose it!, and when I look up, she’s got a very dark expression on her face, and though it would be inaccurate to say she fills the doorway, her presence is tightly focused:  she’s got a powerful, braced stance, with her right leg anchored forward and her right arm out, sort of the stance you used to see in publicity photos of football players in the era of leather helmets.  Beeb is so flustered, pulling the covers up to her chin, she says, Okay!, and Sweet Potato just glares at us like she's the dad! 

 

I walk Sweet Potato back to her room, wait for her climb back into her fire truck bed, and rub her back so she can get on with her nap.  She needs a lot of assurance that we will keep our door open; she worries about being locked into places by herself.  She also asks, why you dewing some-ting widt Mah-mee?  I say I was rubbing Mom’s back, too, so that everyone could take a nap.  Which, of course, is how it all ends up.

More winter fun: sledding

Firsts involved here:  sledding, and use of a new Flip video camera.