Half Cleveland Dad

Driving and Running

One of the jokes … or, rather, one of the regular axioms, in our house is that I’m a bad driver.  In fact, I’m inattentive, impatient, and vaguely resentful that I’m not riding the subway instead because I have I book I’m trying to read.  Driving is also one of my Tourette’s triggers.  It’s possible that Sweet Potato thinks Peesa Shit is a type of car.

Anyway, we drove to Washeen’na Dee See (weah dry’vihn ahw dhey!) recently to hang out with Ghamma Widt No Kittycats and Deh Ahda Ghampa and my brother’s family.  It was fun to Tourette in the DC traffic, and do some real city driving, which in my mind is a lot like playing Tetris. 

Sweet Potato and I, being the only early risers of the bunch, scouted out a lot of the city each morning.  As soon as we were on the street, Sweet Potato would say, woodjoo lyke to wuhn widt me Dehddi?  Lotta running, lotta pausing for tears and scraped knees, these days.

Uh, and, yeah, we're still in the tutu phase.

 

 

 

 

Pleasures and Anxieties of Friendship

The pleasure of childhood friendship seems so intense.  Once you get in the groove with other kids, laughing and running and shouting, there’s no direction except to amplify the excitement and your synergies.  As you get older you learn to prolong the groove -- some of my best childhood memories are of playing street baseball as it got dark in the summer, all the kids shouting and making rules, and trying to keep it all going.

Although I don’t think the activity connected to friendship -- the “bonding” activity, I guess you’d call it (though I’d rather not) -- is important by itself, in my memory those activities are bonded strongly to the feeling of pure friendship. In the third grade I had a school friend named Mark.  His family took us to a baseball game his older brother was playing in.  Once the game started, Mark said, come on!, and ran toward the school buildings (it was a weekend, and the buildings were dark).  I ran after him.  Come on, help me carry this!  We hoisted a metal garbage can up a fire escape, maybe three floors up.  What are we doing, I asked.  We were winded.  Mark took a bunch of matches out of his pocket, and started lighting all the paper garbage on fire!  NOW!  THROW IT OFF!  Holy shit!  We threw that burning garbage can off the fire escape!  That was in Fresno, forty years ago, and at this moment I am remembering it with great fondness, and thinking, throwing a burning garbage can off a fire escape is one of the greatest things a kid could ever do, and it would be great if Sweet Potato could have that same experience!  But really what I mean is that I hope she has friends who make her world bigger, and surprising, and adventuresome, and fun.

***

I wonder when heartache becomes associated with the pleasure of friendship; that is, when does the break of friendship become an experience of pain, rather than just disappointment or a discontinuance of pleasure?  Then, when does a kid develop anxiety about friendship and acceptance?  That is, when do you begin to anticipate the disappointment or suffering of friendship before it begins?

After that it’s not long before your conflicting feelings of pleasure and anxiety are hyperaccelerated by unimagined but insuppressible sexual feelings and gender identity compulsions; then before long you’re at the age that I heard described recently as the “universal age of romance” -- 20.  The wildness of emotional pleasure and unknown dread can be destabilizing and full of suffering, and I worry about Sweet Potato, not a little bit because I also want her to be the kind of person who can throw a burning garbage can off a building for kicks, when, of course, it's the right time to do something like that.  20 is also a time of no parental access.  Not to mention that I may well have died of old age by the time Sweet Potato's 20.

My idea these days is that a kid has to understand her feelings in a broader context, fit them in the greater scope of the world, before having to go through the destabilizing age of puberty.  For instance, think of the way devout theists can understand their lives in a religious or hierarchical context.  They can go out and do rumspringa or something, and still find a way to hold it all together. 

But what can selfish, introspective, atheistic parents do for their lovely kiddo?  Besides talk and talk and talk too much?

Cool and Pretty

This weekend we got a kiddie seat that attaches to the back of my bike.  With Sweet Potato in it, the thing basically rides like my previous aftermarket haulage accessory -- a milkcrate -- when it would be filled with groceries or beer. 

We got a helmet for Sweet Potato, too.  She went for the purple and pink flowers.  She says, Dhe-ehd, yohr hehw-meht is cooh an mine is pwhetty.

It’s great Sweet Potato thinks I’m cool.  One of the reasons I liked my daycare job in high school was that one of the five-year olds said, You’re strong!  Yeah, kiddo!

In fact, I look like a cross between Junichiro Koizumi and Bert the Muppet; my belly button is deepening; I dress entirely in off-price “irregular”-grade clothing, faded and bleach-stained, preferring to layer four old shirts rather than wear a jacket; my helmet is a garish blue (sale bin color); I ride a 25-year old bike that I picked up at a hillbilly yardsale for ten bucks; my beloved two-year old daughter is wearing a flowery helmet, an SF Giants hoodie, froggy galoshes, and a tutu.

But yeah, it’s great being cool and pretty.  Plus, it was pretty god damn cold to ride (high 30s and windy), so we yelled all the way down the street, It’s NOT WARM!  AT ALL!  AT ALL! AT ALL! 

***

In the fall I helped my six-year old niece learn how to ride a two-wheeler!  It was one of the most terrific times in my life, and I just wanted to wake up every morning and go out and help her practice.  I remember so clearly the moment I learned how to ride -- I realized I was in balance, by myself -- and I’d always wanted to help someone else learn.  Throughout my childhood, my bike was my key to quietude, adventure, and independence; an experience of the world through motion, wind, and smells.  The key to helping someone learn is to hold the seat and keep running; don’t be lazy and pull on the handlebars. 

The Dawn of Friendship

The point of toddler play, at this moment, for Sweet Potato, is to negotiate “fun” with some other toddler.  It’s the rudimentary dawn of friendship.  Peak success is to be able to agree on some coordinated, simultaneous physical activity (usually running, jumping, or singing either Happy Birthday or If You’re Happy and You Know It) that leads to squealing and laughing gleefully.  It’s not easy, because you have to figure out how to coordinate the activity; that is, you have to agree to do something that’s fun for all of you, then work out the timing. 

Last week we sat for friends, and had their 2-year old Zydrunas come for dinner at five.  Z is a big, beatific toddler.  He’s always wearing something special; for a few months it was his bat ears that his mom had sewn for Halloween, but maybe now it’s a pair of sunglasses.

Sweet Potato had taken in the news of Z’s visit very quietly the day before, but by the time Z came over, she had developed a program of sharing and making friends; to wit, she would first share her bumpy balls with him (he would play with the green one, and she would have the red), and then she would show him her easel.  She was tremendously excited to implement her plan and was delivering the whole instruction manual as Z walked in the door with his parents.  Z you pay widt dhis bhall um gween won an dhen um an dhen I’w pay widt dhis won, ohkay, bhat ohkay you stehn oveh deah ohkay puddout yoah heands!

The ball sharing was easily negotiated, but the actual playing activity was never quite established, so the parties adapted the game by jumping and laughing in Sweet Potato’s fire truck together.  While they were jumping on the bed, Sweet Potato said, less hode heands.  Then they were holding hands, jumping, and laughing.  Then they climbed on the front of the bed, and jumped off, singly, then together.  The success of reaching an agreement -- doing something together -- creates more glee than parallel play does.  It’s also amazing to listen to toddlers talk and understand each other!

The easel idea kind of fell apart because the parties failed to reach agreement regarding the occupancy of the opposite sides of the easel, and simultaneous use of either side of the easel overloaded Sweet Potato’s capacity for sharing. 

The evening ended several hours later with all toddlers crying, but I mean that in the best way. 

***

This week we went to a birthday party in some unbelievably remote suburb.  The toddler social experience peaked when they ran together with balloons across the living room.

It’s interesting how the peak only lasts a couple of runs.  Then, you know, someone cries, or something breaks, or some parent says it's time to go, or something else throws off the rhythm, the vibe, and you can’t get it back.

 

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. 

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.