It was, to understate the moment, not one of my better uses of the English language in public.
Having done a rather good job of driving with a zen attitude in the last couple of years (that is to say, not screaming and chuntering at everyone who does me perceived wrong on the road) I undid 18-odd months of work in one expletive-filled minute. I was crossing Haight St on Ashbury, eyeing a parking space across the intersection. A bus was pulling through at the same time, and as I was half-way through, the light changed to amber. I delicately turned a slight left, and there, in the crosswalk, was a large, cumbersome oaf of a youth. Tattoos, bald, baggy white t-shirt, baggy jeans slipping of his overtly generous arse, you know the type, one of those teenagers who thinks they’re a tough ghetto kid because they heard an Eminem album once. In short, a tragic cocktail of blubbering teenage unconfidence, and seering stupidity; which in this case combined to fashion a beast who stopped it’s slow progress, stared at me, made some gestures and said something. I did, I admit, react like fire to gasoline. For a start, I returned the lumbering oaf’s gestures. And as I managed to get through the crosswalk and to the parking spot, he stopped as if to challenge me. Sadly, I accepted, lowering my window
“What the fuck’s your problem dickhead?” I said, taking great care to use words with no more than two syllables so as it would comprehend clearly what I was saying.
“Well…I WAS SAYIN’ ARE YOU DRIVIN’ A FUCKIN’ SLALOM COURSE?!!!!” at which point the lumpen creature jumped back away from the car, turned and walked off at speed. I couldn’t resist.
“That’s right, fuck off you fat wanker!” I shouted at him as he retreated, which taking into account my own rather ample stomach was perhaps not the wisest thing to have shouted. In fact let’s be honest, none of what I yelled was what you’d expect from a 42 year old father…father…father…ah yes, I suddenly remembered I was a Dad.
“Say that again Dada, go on, say it again, again…”
I clicked bolt upright.
Oh no!
In my haste to engage the gormless dickhead youth, I had momentarily forgotten that the pre-schooler was in the car. She was why I’d even gone to the Haight, aiming as we were to get to Mendell’s Art Supply Shop before it closed for some left-handed scissors and more construction paper. And her reaction was, well, you can see what it was.
“You know what, Dada should NOT have done that, it was very wrong and not very smart, I’m sorry you heard it.”
“That’s OK Dada, now do it again, I want you to, do it again!”
And that properly informs you as to who she is…a complex and extremely smart young girl who’s father knows is going to ride said-parent (and spouse) like a wet-dog for many years. In the best possible way of course. Here’s the rub; she hears language like that, but thanks to not just a quick self-criticism on my part but also an inate feel for language and it’s appropriateness, she has not repeated one word of it. But I know she remembers every single one. This is the girl who can now make out what the word is when you spell out c-a-n-d-y amongst others. So I can safely say she remembers the word ‘wanker’ yet strangely, I am not scared that she is going to bust it out at an inopportune moment because of that aforementioned feel for language. No, her brain is moving too fast to dwell on a rude word. What an inconvenience! There are far too many other things to be doing, such as reading stories to her entire throng of stuffed friends, holding tea-parties every half an hour, playing ‘teacher’ with any living thing (including Fluffy the cat) and attempting to go to sleep. Take last night’s attempt as an example, her Mum having put her to bed.
MY WIFE: Nighty-night.
PRE-SCHOOLER: Night-niiiight.
P-S: Mom?
MW: Yes?
P-S: I need to go to the bathroom (this after having gone 10 minutes prior).
MW: OK, hurry up and then back to bed.
P-S: OK Mom.
(bathroom is used)
P-S: Nighty-night Mama.
MW: Mighty-night…
(a minute later)
P-S: Mom?
MW: WHAT?!
P-S: Can I get up and open my door a teeny-tiny bit?
MW: NO, GO TO SLEEP!
P-S: Ooooooo Kaaaaayyy.
(another minute)
P-S: Mom?
MW: WHAAT?!!
P-S: I NEED TO GO THE BATHROOM AGAIN!
MW: (sighs, huffs a bit, complemented by husband yelling ‘this is the last time, you’re taking the Mickey!’) THIS IS THE LAST TIME.
P-S: OK…and Mom?
MW: YES?
P-S: Don’t forget to put the dishes in the washer, and don’t forget your sunglasses tomorrow…
HUSBAND: HURRY UP, YOU’RE TAKING THE MICKEY NOW! GEDDONWITHIT!
P-S: Am I also taking the Minnie?
Incidentely, this is the edited version, and it went on for another three exchanges and another 30 minutes of singing to herself before she finally shut down. Such behavior has led me to refer to her, in conversation with my wife, as the kindred spirit of the border collie. Both are extremely smart, both need to constantly be worked before they’ll drop to sleep and I happen to love both too, although my border collie could become a bit more a nap-dog and I wouldn’t entirely complain. Indeed, her need to be put to work is so intense that in our house, threats for not finishing your dinner are like this.
“Listen, if you do NOT finish you dinner properly, you will NOT be able to wipe the table and floors with the lemon wipes.”
It is a threat which always see her jaw drop in anticipation of the possibility she might be stripped of one of her favorite things to do; cleaning any available surface with lemon scented surface wipes. Of course, I can calm your fears by telling you that we would never be so cruel as to deny a young lady what she loves, thus she never loses the privilege of cleaning our dining room table post-meal, and if she’s really good, we’ll let her work on a floor or two. It’s simply the sort of benevolent parenting I promote, and in all reality, as long as we’re all happy then who are YOU to comment?!!!!
