Half Cleveland Dad

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. 

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.

Drowning

The other night I dreamt that Sweet Potato and I were by a little stone pond.  She wanted to go in it; I said okay.  It was like a garden pond, about eight feet long, black stone, about six inches deep.  Sure.  She waded in.  In the middle of the pond she bent over to look at something, and tipped over, head in, bottom up.  I jumped to grab her, but when I looked in the pool, she had already fallen deep into the drain (only about 2 inches around), and all I could see were her fingertips in it. 

Last month Sweet Potato and I were in a rec center pool that we visit often.  We were wading in about a foot and a half of water, moving toward the deeper side, when she slipped and fell forward.  She was horizontal underwater, hair billowing, little arms reaching with a small, hesitant motion.  She couldn’t get up; she didn’t understand where she was or how to get her position.  Before I was able to take the two steps over and scoop her up her face rolled toward the surface about a quarter turn.  Her eyes were so wide open.

Thrills and Skills

This weekend Sweet Potato and I took the stroller out to the market.  Here are some of our stroller games:  (1) Battering Ram.  I hold Sweet Potato horizontally at my hip, like a battering ram, while she hangs onto the stroller handle, and we charge down the sidewalk.  It’s hard to steer and we veer all over the place.  When old ladies see us coming toward them they freeze and do that nervous old lady shaking-in-place thing.  (2) Fast, Cheap, and Out of Control.  Sweet Potato pushes the stroller herself.  Because she’s standing behind the seat back, she can’t see where it’s going.  Some youthful hipsters were drinking beer on their porch when Sweet Potato wanted to show off with some FCOOC; they thought it was cute at first, but ten minutes later we were still in front of their house.  (3)  Body Surfing.  Sometimes she likes to lie back in the stroller and look at leaves and clouds.  Yesterday we figured out that she can also lie on her stomach, facing forward.  I push fast.  Can she fall out?  Sure.  I gave her the camera and we made the two-year old’s version of one of those You Tube base-jumping videos.

 

This video is for you, Uncle John.  Warning to all others:  it's dull.

 

 

She is also kicking.  (1) It started a few months ago, atthe Natural History Museum, when she started pointing out various things like exhibits and pedestals; once she’d pointed a thing out, she would shout, kick it!, and then kick it!  (2) And last week I took her to the Cleveland Museum of Art. Beeb the Mom said she’d had good luck by starting with the don’t-touch admonitions early in the day, so for a couple of hours before we went, I was all, okay, big girl, you can look, but don’t touch; don’t touch; don’t touch.  We got there and got up to the contemporary stuff, and I’m keeping up the mantra, don’t touch, don’t touch.  She’s keeping her hands clasped at her chest, so I figure she’s doing all right.  She makes a bee-line to a Martin Puryear sculpture.  She bends toward it like she’s reading a label, and for a second I start to be proud of myself, how the little genius has such natural taste in … then, boom! she stands up and boots the thing with her plaid sneaker from Marshall’s.  She cried when I grabbed her, and said, I want to kick it!  I was squatting and holding her shoulders, and ... couldn't think of anything to say, so I just went with Jesus Christ!  Whatever.  Next time I'll tell her to kick the Richard Long instead.  That Puryear does look like a big ball, now that I think about it.  (3) So on our walk to the market yesterday Sweet Potato was walking on the tree lawns, narrating the experience to herself, including ad lib passages to the tune of The Farmer in the Dell, when she came to a tiny conifer.  I heard her say, dehr’s a lit-tol tree!. Then she booted it just like the Puryear piece, a determined sole-first stomp.  She did it again, and laughed, not like a little girl, but like a maniac -- Ha-HA!  Heh-heh-heh!  She’s turning into a hooligan!  After kicking the tree, though, she did put a flower on top of it.

 

We also watched a bunch of bugs in the back yard.  (1) A fuzzy white caterpillar swirled around in the grass.  (2) A fly had fallen into Sweet Potato’s dirty smoothie cup.  I fished it out and flicked it onto the steps, where we watched it buzz and clean itself with all its legs.  Sweet Potato tried to flick it, too, but by then it was sufficiently de-greased to fly away.  (3)  We watched a honey bee go from clover to clover in the lawn.  I said something about bees being busy working on the flowers.  Sweet Potato was sitting next to her dump truck, the kind of toy you’d use in a sandbox.  She said about the bee, I’m going to kill it with the dump truck.  I almost let her try, but told her instead that the bee had to go home and help its family.

 

Killing in our house is a term of art, and means taking a flying leap, feet-first or knees-first, onto someone who is supine, although lately there is a spin-around bottom-first variation in development.  I guess it also means wailing on someone with a toy.  Before Sweet Potato could talk we would roughhouse, and when she stomped me I would say, you’re killing me!  When she started to talk she would request the game Kyiou you?  It’s been known as killing ever since.  Rule:  When you are lying with mom and dad reading books before bed, it’s okay to kill dad a little bit, but don’t kill mom because she doesn’t like it.

 

A couple times this weekend Sweet Potato also unfastened her soggy diaper, whirled it, and flung it.  I remember an advertising image from the seventies, of sassy women twirling their bras.  Sweet Potato’s gesture is pretty much the same -- the direct gaze, the swinging hips -- except that then comes this heavy, urine-soaked number 4 dipe flying through the air at you.

Disclaimer and Anecdote

Last summer we were driving through Michigan, and got pulled over.  Apparently in Michigan you have to go at least 15 miles an hour over the posted limit or you’re driving too slow.  Since the posted limit was something like 75 mph and no car we’ve ever owned would do 75 without rattling and shedding screws, the best plan would have been to have avoided Michigan.  Unfortunately, we were also grooving to a qawwali CD.  As a result, Beeb the Mom, Sweet Potato, and I were extradited to Syria to be tortured.

 

When they took off our hoods, we were strapped to chairs in a cell with bare bulbs swinging overhead.  A couple, who looked like some people we knew from the food co-op, came in and sat across from us.  They started politely enough, asking how old Sweet Potato was (she was about one).  The wife then told us how their son tested “gifted” at one.  The husband told stories about how early the kid had started reading; then the wife corrected him and said no he was only eight months, because that was when they started playing Bach at all times in the house because they had provided conservatory-level training to the little fellow while he was in utero, and he was happiest conducting Bach by waving his hand or rolling his head.  They smiled and giggled modestly.  They told us his grades; they told us about his vocabulary (and it was technically vocabulary because he used words in the proper context); they cited teacher testimonials about his Gift and his Giftedness.  They went on about their efforts and contributions to the boy’s Giftedness, and how Supportive they are of parents of children who are Gifted (it’s such a challenge) and how the Program the boy was in was the Best because it didn’t just develop his mind but also his self-esteem. 

 

They were unbearable!  We couldn't take it!  I’m not ashamed to say it: we cracked.  We paid the fine and signed the release that allows the Michigan state trooper fundraising group to call us (home or cell) at dinnertime, forever.  When we finally made it home, we swore that, no matter how smart Sweet Potato might become, we were never, ever going to be the pitchmen for Our Little Gifted One.

 

Now, though, with my delight with Sweet Potato’s company, along with (I’m not ashamed to say this, either) my simple pride in being her dad, I’d like to start presenting unadorned anecdotes about stuff she’s done and said.  Know what I mean?  This post therefore is notice to you that although some of the material you may read here may depict precocious behavior, parental happiness, wonder, and nerdiness and/or a certain family culture of nerdiness, the author hereby expressly disclaims, for himself, his wife, other relatives, and their heirs, successors, and assigns, any attempt or intention of representing Sweet Potato as Gifted.  That is, she’s just a kid, even if she’s our lovely kid.

 

***

 

All right.  So.  I got sunburned this weekend.  One day we went to a party in the suburbs with a lot of kids (where, incidentally, everyone except me and Sweet Potato were white), and I sat in the sun while watching Sweet Potato play in the water; and the next day we went to the playground near our house (where, incidentally, everyone except me and Sweet Potato were black), and I sat in the sun while watching Sweet Potato play in the water.  At the dinner table I leaned toward her and pressed my cheek, to show her the white-on-red fingerprint effect.  I’m sunburned, I said.  Sweet Potato looked at my cheek and said, dedhi gedda sunkka-ji’?  Huh?  She climbed off her chair and hustled into the living room.  I godda pezen fuhyoo dedhi.  Beeb said, she’s got a present for you: sunscreen!  Sweet Potato was waddling all around, rooting through her diaper bag to find me some sunscreen!  In the end she got distracted by something that plays Pop Goes the Weasel and then dumped a basket of plastic fruit on the floor and waded around in it until I went and got her and then she cried when I put her back in her seat to finish dinner, but that moment when her natural sympathy animated her immediate, can-do, I-can-help spirit made me as proud as anything.

 

So thank you, my Sweet Potato!  You’re getting to be a marvelous person, and I hope you can shine your beautiful light all over the world.

That's great.

A few months ago, Beeb the Mom found a list of the “top 100 American movies” at the library, so since then, as a diversion of sorts, we’ve been trying to catch up on the ones we haven’t seen.  The other night Beeb watched Cabaret with headphones while I did the dishes and had a drink; I’d seen it and didn’t want to see it again.  It was a muggy night, and it was nice to be in our little house, doing things that seemed just right for the scope of a muggy spring night in our little house, being a few yards apart from each other in separate rooms, with Sweet Potato upstairs, sacked out deep in her humid toddler REM cycle.  The windows were wide open and our ugly overhead kitchen light was on.  The part I seemed to remember best about Cabaret was a street scene in which a chorus of Hitler Youth sang “Deutschland Über Alles.”  Before I saw the movie I knew from reading that the song was the National Socialist anthem, set to the tune of Haydn’s “Austrian Hymn,” but had never heard it sung.  I remembered an Austrian friend telling me about the climate of political ambivalence during the years early in the rise of the Nazis, and I thought that the simple beauty of Haydn’s melody could contribute a lot to that kind of ambivalence.  Today we are all aware of the political ambivalence of our age; and direct connections to the historical setting of Cabaret have not entirely petered out -- this is the state that recently disgorged John Demjanjuk.  With all of that in mind, along with a couple of drinks, I sang what I knew of the song, loud and high, trying to feel out some demarcation between the atemporal esthetic and the historical enormity embedded in it:  Deutschland Deutschland, über alles, Über alles in der Welt!  Just then I heard a cell phone ring right outside the window.  My neighbor Dave answered, hello?  He was out there in the backyard with his dog, and had just watched me sing the Nazi anthem! 

 

I leaned and looked out the dark screen but he was already walking back to his deck, holding a bag of poop and talking on the phone.