Half Cleveland Dad

Discontent

This spring I’ll have lived in Cleveland, Ohio for ten years.  I’ve always been discontent here, so I raise my eyebrows a bit and say, hmmm!, when I picture the number 10 in this context, but I'm accustomed to being rather chronically discontent, and out of place, and I'm aware of my failure to answer the if not here, where sorts of questions regarding Cleveland, Ohio, so it would be inaccurate to say I'm surprised, because, if nothing else, I know I'm still here.  I'm getting a clue, though:

 

The other day Sweet Potato and I were walking around the neighborhood in the snow.  She was watching her feet and listening to her crunchy steps, but stuck up her mitten and said lets hode heands, dad.  Then I was holding hands with a two-year old, walking through the snow, singing Happy Birthday and Twinkle Twinkle, and I had to admit to myself, this is the best my life will ever be.  It wasn’t a Proustian revelation or anything, but more of an admission, or settling.  My general discontent settled a bit with acknowledgment that, yep, this was a dreamt-for moment; a sudden, sweet pool along a crooked, tentative rivulet. 

 

I did thumb through a little Proust after our walk, and Remembrance of Things Past made a new kind of sense.  I used to think it was about love and art, but now it seems like an enlightenment tale:  life is suffering, and suffering is desire, and desire is whining about how you can’t always get what you want, but when you do get it you whine about it even more, until you leave it all behind in order to really think about it, based on a hint of transcendence you get from a chance sense-memory, and then you develop your hint into a meditative practice based on writing that eventually floods you with understanding and compassion for everyone, the result of years sequestered not in a mountaintop hut but in a cork-lined room. 

Doting

You probably realized it before I did, but I've become a mere doting dad.  I don’t think I’m a particularly indulgent dad, but I enjoy being with Sweet Potato more than I like just about anything else, and I pay a lot of attention to her, because I like being with her so much.  And this morning Sweet Potato said, I like havin’ behkfiss with you dehd.

 

Could do without the booger eating, though.

 

Today Beeb the Mom had taken ill, so it was just me driving and Sweet Potato in her car seat, going down the highway, when she said, Da-ahd, I haf a boog!  I godda big boogah, Da-ahd.  I took a quick look back, and she was waving it around on her finger -- a sizeable, sticky, yellowish chunk.  I groped around for a tissue and handed it back to her.  Wipe it, I said.  Some silence.  Don’t wipe your boog on your clothes, big girl.  I ate it!  What?  I’m eaten it!  JESUS CHRIST DON’T EAT YOUR BOOGS, MAN!  I ahreddy ade it!  AWW JESUS CHRIST!  When we got to the sledding hill I found she was also chewing on half a kleenex, like chaw, laughing.

On the ride from sledding to lunch she started singing, I’ne gohnn’ eat my boogs, Da-ahd!  I’ne gohn’ta eat a reoh big one!  I held my breath and ignored her, because I don’t need the booger-eating show to be identified as a guaranteed dad-freak-out switch, which it is.  We had pho for lunch, and her nose was running a bit, and in between bites she stuck her index and middle fingers into her nostrils and gave her snot a quick smear into her lips.  Double-barrel!  But I was silent on that, too, and just wiped her face and fingers with a napkin.

***

On the same car ride she was talking about “radius.”  Radius?  She was talking about reindeers.

***

I don’t remember anything about The Courtship of Eddie’s Father, except that it was my favorite show as a small child, and I loved Bill Bixby’s gentle, reasonable manner.  It didn’t seem to be on much, and I probably only saw it three or four times.  Or maybe even, like, once.  But Bill Bixby really made an impression on me -- the guy was really paying attention to the kid!  And he was really nice to the Japanese lady, too.  I kind of focused on Bixby himself, and his name.  For instance, I hated the fucking Hulk, which was more like my real family; I felt betrayed and disappointed in Bill Bixby himself.  Later, I think I listened with particular interest to Bix Biederbeck, wondering, somehow, if there would be any of that Bix-ish tinge of calm and empathy. 

My Favorite Thing

Are you getting tired of the video?  Dude, check this out anyway:

 

 

I was at the kitchen sink while Sweet Potato was having breakfast, and saw her digging Coltrane like this.  The video only catches the last few seconds.  Once she asked me why Monk doesn’t have any words, and I answered that he’s talking with his music.  It seemed to make sense to her, and now she’ll often comment that a guy’s tokken widt his myoo-zik!  Some people just know how to hear what’s being said.

YouTube is blocking this video in Germany.  I know they're in the information harvesting business, but I’m still impressed that the technology can recognize the copyrightable content of the audio, just in the uploading process.  Why Germany?  In the US, I'll take my fair use chances.