UPSTATE…

 

We are in Wappinger’s Falls, upstate New York, and I sit here on a muggy, humid Saturday morning, in a Starbucks.

I have just ambled over to Wal-mart, resisted buying $6 guido-wear, stuck to the task of buying a pack of socks (6 for $4, and whoopee, let’s have a big hand for for child labor!) and I am eating oatmeal and a banana.

My wife has taken the pre-schooler to Jumpin’ Jakes, a large red and yellow room in which are a series of giant inflatable jumpy houses and slides.

We will soon go and meet up with the rest of my wife’s family for a ‘reunion’ lunch.

 

Her parents are old now, mid 70s and early 80s respectively, but they remain chipper, pushing on well, refusing to capitulate to age, aches, forgetfulness, a decrease in speed.

I caught sight of my wife’s mother in a photo from when she was barely in her 20s. She was a beautiful woman, flawless in appearance, eyes wide open with all the hope, wonder and expectation of a life with 5 children and multiple international living situations to come. And it has been quite a life; homes and eras in South Africa, Singapore, Switzerland, five children, dances with anxiety…the plate has always been bustlingly full.

 

She has retained that smile from her youth, and to be fair she has looked after herself well, but of course there has been the inevitable descent into advanced old age. We keep having the same, small conversations, and spirited as they are, imbued with genuine emotion and inquisitiveness, they are nonetheless the same conversations. I watch her watching her grandchildren; she seems delighted to see them but in a slightly disoriented way, as if matching the grandkids she’s currently seeing with the ones she hears regularly about is not a straight route. That’s not necessarily a negative, christ, the very same happens with me and my own kids! But hers is more the product of pace, the realization of that time when energy, the sort of energy you need to deal with young ones, is just not available on tap anymore.

That’s the process of age. Nothing more. Nothing less.

 

My wife’s father, my father-in-law, one of four fathers who will gather for breakfast tomorrow on Father’s Day, and the most experienced father of all, is a whippet-smart humorist, observations as dry as water biscuits and a wicked grin to boot. I still can’t get up early enough to catch him out with a quip or a joke. I’ve always liked him, even when (perhaps) he wasn’t sure about me. I was, after all, the rock’n'roller who came into his daughter’s life with a divorce and child under his fingernails; naturally cocaine and strippers must’ve been part of my daily diet. And I remember so clearly a dinner we had early on in San Francisco, when they had both come out ostensibly to see who this creature their daughter had fallen in love with was. I had discussed with my wife how important it was that I explain to them who I was, what my job was, why I got divorced, the fact that my son was with me too, the fact that I Am Father in name and committment to him. I proceeded to advance this discussion as we waited for our meal to come, and as I reached the divorce explanation, the food came.

“THE SAUCE ON THIS BURGER IS DELICIOUS!” proclaimed her father, but my wife said calmly that I wasn’t finished, and so I continued.

As we got up to leave after that meal, he came over to me and gave me a long, tight hug. And so it is that we’re always happy to see each other, there’s always jokes, there’s always political discussions and there’s always (I sense) a gratitude that his daughter and I met. He himself harbored painting aspirations, perhaps a bohemian side which never got full expression as he instead worked tirelessly for Kodak around the globe, supporting his family and bringing them on a world tour in the process. indeed, those days at Kodak sometimes become the stuff of which 70s blockbuster movies were made, epic tales of skullduggery witnessed and bravery shown in an increasingly hostile and unempathetic working environment.

He is a rare old bird, a man who most certainly comes from a time, era and ethic far beyond the current one, yet a man who has effortlessly embraced the world around him and all it’s changes seemlessly. That might sound trite, but the majority of men dipping a toe into their early 80s spend days at a time bemoaning the state of the world. Not him. Not a chance.

 

And so as I survey the scenarios, as I ponder them, as I see the memories of a long and busy life dotted around their house (a sculpture from South Africa here, a painting from Singapore there) I realize that far from feeling melancholic for my wife’s mother and father, I actually feel delighted!

They have MADE IT to HERE with very few PERSONAL HEALTH ISSUES.

They still see their 5 children, whatever the stories, whatever the histories, whatever the dramas have been (and ALL families are all about that, there is no perfection, there is no golden ticket at the family center) they have four grandchildren, they have a relative degree of comfort and they have each other.  And perhaps (in my wife’s mum’s case) the advance of memory loss is a protection against any emotional pain that might come with the aging process. Perhaps it protects her from being riddled with anxiety which she wouldn’t have the energy to act upon. Perhaps it’s the body and brain’s design to make the impact of loss, of your visiting kids leaving, of your grandkids flying back to their homes with their parents less impactful. Perhaps…right? Right. 

 

So despite the fact we are staying in upstate New York at a hotel across from a Wal-mart, despite the fact that the pre-schooler takes a while to adjust to new environments (don’t they all I suppose), despite the fact I haven’t seen the teenager for a week and won’t for another (he’s of in Florida with his mother’s cousins hanging by the pool, getting sunburnt, loping around with girls and getting hangovers after a hurricane to many with his Mum) I am happy we’re here.

Because these are the visits which must be made, not only for the grandparents, but also for the children and grandchildren  to get much-needed fixes of elderly wisdom, as well as reminders that old age can still be active, still be relevant and still be fun.

At these moments, perspective is everything…

A SPIRITED CHILD

“Wow,” said my brother-in-law, “she’s a spirited child.”

“And I should be a spirited Dad,” I countered, “imbued with large amounts of liquor to deal with the dervish that is her!”

He looked at me, smiling. “Sure, sure,” he replied, “but she really is a spirited child.”

“Is that some sort of category, adjective or euphemism?”

“No, it’s an actual phrase to describe kids who are just ‘more’ of everything; more energetic, more perceptive, more emotional, more verbal, sharper, more resilient, just ‘more’…”

He saw my face dip.

“It’s not a bad thing at all,” he quickly followed up, “it’s a great thing actually, these kids usually grow up to have very active, gregarious and productive lives, but there are things to know about them in order to be able to deal with them properly.”

A spirited child. A spirited child. A spirited child. I watched her, the whirling fizzball of energy, the curious, the questioning, the demanding , the loving, the smiley, the laughing, the happy her. And it clicked that she was precisely this; a spirited child.

“I have a book about it that I’ve been reading,” my wife said, “I’m sure I’ve told you about it, or that you’ve noticed me reading it.”

Neither rang a bell. Because had it been presented to me, I’d have grabbed the lifeline with both hands. Because I have been wondering. And because I have been searching to know if she is a bit ‘more’ than most, or if it’s all been in my head, my 42 year old sometimes frumpy-grumpy head with it’s own myriad of little fizzles and crackles going on. And here was the answer. It hasn’t been and it isn’t. It’s very, very real.

I found the book underneath a couple of crossword puzzle books and I took it. I started reading it. And I learnt something new. After 17 years as a parent, I really learnt something brand, spanking new. It was a relief and a revelation. 

She is a spirited child.

And the context this has offered, the insight and context, is nothing short of a revelation. The book, the websites I have subsequently looked up, the people I have since spoken to about it, none of them suggest it’s a ‘condition’ as such, and damn right. It isn’t an illness. It’s a type. I suppose back when my Mum was young, they’d have scoffed at these ’sub-type’ definitions, they’d have talked of  making sure they eat well, sleep well and how a little smack on the botty never hurt anyone. But then, as my brother-in-law and his wife discussed the other night, these are the main customer base for therapists the world over. So as long as there are no drugs involved (as in ‘prescribing kids with drugs wily-nily simply because you cannot find another answer), what’s a little ’sub-type knowledge’ between friends?

It can only help. Help me understand the repetitive questions, the incessant refusal to accept certain answers, the almost pathological determination to do something which, err, shouldn’t be done. Because I know deep in my heart of hearts that she doesn’t know how ‘alive’ she is, how bright the fire burns inside her, how utterly, totally and completely overwhelming she can be. And I know that not only must I slowly make her aware of these gifts, this power, but that I must also continue learning how to deal with it. That isn’t to say I won’t yell, piss, moan, grumble or grishnackh once in a while, but I am hopeful that learning more about the things which push me to a grumble or ‘nackh will mean I can not engage in either so much. 

I always knew she was unique, this ’spirited child’ of mine. I’d say how much like her brother she generally wasn’t, save for their goodness, kindness and sociability. I’d refer to his ‘Hawaiian’ nature versus her ‘roadrunner’ speed, and I’d note how he never seems to worry whereas regular readers will have noted that she can meltdown over the loss of  hair-tye. This is the providence of ‘the spirited child’ and whilst the speed bumps will doubtless continue, I am finally aware that what at first seemed odd is now understandable, what at first seemed unfathomable is reasonable and what seemed daunting is actually wonderful. That energy. That passion. That perpetually upbeat demeanor…my spirited child…

DO PIGS BLEED?

The pre-schooler had gone to bed perhaps 30 minutes prior to yelling, “Dada? DADA?”

She has a habit of making bedtime as long an experience as possible (like most her age) and it is no surprise to step in, hear some insignificant, time-wasting little tale of a missplaced stuffed toy which happens to be below her chin and deliver a slightly volumous edict that if she does not go to sleep, there will be consequences.

But this was different. Because when I went into her room and sighed, “What do you want?” she was sitting upright, a book in her lap, and she asked, “Dada, do pigs bleed?”

It’s fair to say I was stunned. I mean, the question is one thing. Kids will ask these things at variously odd times, but she had never, ever shown the slightest sign that blood and life had anything to do with each other. She knew a bit about blood, such as from when you scrape your knee, or cut your finger. But in terms of it being a lifeforce which runs through all mammals? Got to say, not exactly the sort of thing we discuss at dinner, especially when we’re trying to get her to move beyond wheat pasta, yoghurt, a bit of chicken, peas and corn.

“Do pigs bleed?”

“Yeah…do they?”

“Yes. Yes they do. So do cows.”

“And sheep?”

“Yes, sheep do too.”

“They bleed too? They all bleed?”

“Yes because they’re all living things.”

“Do kitties bleed?”

This was a tough one to answer. Of course they bleed, but our beloved Fluffy, a 17 year old lion and family member, had stopped eating two days earlier, stopped drinking water, stopped using the bathroom and was wandering off to corners of the garden and house to be left alone. He was dying and my wife and I had just made the decision to bring a vet to the house so as he could be put to sleep. We were, to understate the situation, very sad. And now these questions.

She’s always been a perceptive little girl, emotionally tuned, perhaps too much so at times. I worry occasionally about her acute ability to pick up on an atmosphere or mood (it’s one of the reasons I’m very quick to make sure that if I’m in a bad mood of my own accord, I let her know it has nothing to do with her at all) and as I stood there beside her bed hearing these questions, I realized that she must’ve picked up on the dip in mood within the house. To think that such ‘vibes’ could unlock her mind into considering such matters as she tried to go to sleep!  

I looked at the book in her lap. It had a cow on the front and was obviously one of the many books she has about farm animals. Cows. Pigs. Chickens. Sheep…and lambs…and…

“Did you say ‘bleed’ or ‘bleaT’ as in ‘when sheep make noise they BLEAT!?’

“Yeah. Bleat. Do pigs bleat?”

“No but sheep do. And lambs. They bleat, that’s the noise they make, pigs go ‘oink’ and cows go ‘moo.’ Now go to sleep.”

“OK Dada…”

…Having found great relief that I was not, in fact, the father of a Midwich Cuckoo, I had to laugh. It’s how wars are started. But still the shadow of Fluffy hung heavily, and the next day, as we prepared for him to be put to sleep, the pre-schooler saw us both in various states of misery and gloom. The day after the night before, she and I found ourselves alone at the table. The teenager was at work, my wife was at work. It was late afternoon.

“Dada, I love you and Mama and Zsa Zsa and Fluffy…I want to always be with everyone.”

Fluffy – RIP 5/26/09…the tweetest liddle puddy in the whole wide world

“You know that Fluffy has gone, like we talked about, that he was old and got ill so he went to sleep forever and isn’t coming back, because he died?”

“He isn’t here?”

“No, he went to sleep forever. Because he was very old and very ill, so he’s gone forever but there’s still some of him around, in the sky, in the air…”

She looked up at the ceiling.

“Where? I don’t see any of him?”

I laughed.

“It’s not ACTUAL bits of him, it’s his spirit, his personality, his ‘air’ which is always going to be here.”

“Oh…he was broken!!! Hee hee hee, Fluffy was broken and is up there, hee hee hee!”

“Yes, in a way you’re right. He was broken. His lungs stopped working properly and he wasn’t breathing properly.”

“What are lungs?”

“They’re the two organs behind your chest which allow you to breathe, and if you don’t breathe, then you’ll die, go go to sleep forever…”

“Oh. OK. I love Fluffy.”

“So do we all, and we can always love him…want to look at some photos?”

“YEAH!”

Soo we looked at photos of Fluffy, talked about him, sang the songs we’d made up about him, giggled about him and enjoyed him.

Last night I’d seen a cat who I wanted to get in a few weeks when we’re back from travels. Earlier my wife had said that she felt the right cat would come to us, make itself apparent. And having replied to a craigslist posting, I found out that that person who had fostered ‘Led’, an 11 month old medium-haired tabby/maine-coon who’s personality sounded perfect, was someone I knew. He had, indeed, found a way to come to us. And when we showed the pre-schooler, she squealed and declared she liked him. 

“What would you call him?” my wife asked.

“I would call him BUBBLES!” she yelled, laughing long and loud as she did so.

 Bubbles will be with us in late June…and Fluffy, I know, would approve…

JAMES BROWN WAS RIGHT…

To some, when James Brown was arrested in 1988 for asking who was using his personal bathroom (whilst brandishing a shotgun) it was the act of a crazy man. I remember laughing along with everyone else.

Yet here I am, 21 years later, an older man, a father of two children, one just about to turn 17, the other about to turn 4, and I can tell you unequivocally that I, Steffan Chirazi, do solomnly swear that I understand EXACTLY why James Brown asked the question, why he insisted on waving a shotgun to punctuate his curiosity, and why every father should have their OWN goddam bathroom where NO-ONE ELSE CAN ENTER. That’s right, no-one. Not the kids, not the missus, not your visiting parents or in-laws, siblings, your dirty, slobbery, beer-stenched buddies, indeed, absolutely NO fucker should be allowed to use YOUR PERSONAL BATHROOM.

Because (and take a deeeeeeep breath) our bathroom time is a sanctuary; an escape from the pressures of everyday life, a welcome respite from the relentless dynamics of family life.  Ever heard someone yell in exasperation, “CAN’T I EVEN SHIT IN PEACE?” Well it was probably me. Yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. And forever. Because I swear to God, whenever my bowels rumble or I get a tinkle-tickle, as soon as I make my way towards the bathroom, someone is guaranteed to either get there a fraction before me and take their time, or get there moments after I have closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief, hammering on the outside, perhaps just asking ‘how long I’ll be’ (answer: 20 minutes. Now can you kindly depart to the DOWNSTAIRS BATHROOM!!!!) or, I don’t know, asking,”Steffy, have you just gone in?” (No, I actually went in two hours ago, didn’t you notice?) Honestly, our family has the most extraordinary habit of  managing to disrupt my every movement; if I even get up quietly and head off to the can, someone’s onto it, someone will need something and the sanctity of my moment alone is destroyed. Example? 40 minutes ago, I tried to take a peaceful poo, only for two hands to bang on the door within 30 seconds of my arse touching the seat with a little voice yelling ‘DADA, I NEED TO GO PEE PEE!’ and my wife to shout, ‘Steffy, she needs to use the bathroom!’ Oh REALLY? WHAT a shock!!! I mean, Jesus, don’t  ANY of them understand? Half the time its NOT ABOUT DEFACTING OR URINATING, it’s about ESCAPING!!! Think of it as a mini-vacation, a small trip to a comfy place where your time is your own, you can do what you want and you answer to no-one. No passport, visa or cash needed. I mean, if I actually DID expunge waste every time I went through the hallowed portal, I’d be in need of a hospital!

The point is that  Mr.Brown knew the score when it comes to men and bathrooms, and unlike many of us, who spend our lives in constant compromise, Mr.Brown took it not only to the bridge but beyond the point of no return. That is to say, he didn’t give a flying fuck, he said it loud, ’stay out of the man’s can or suffer the consequences.’ Yet society, in all it’s politically-correct ‘I’ve-never-thought-like-that’ hypocrisy saw fit to mock the Godfather of Soul, to castigate him for being ‘crazy’ and to ultimately arrest and incarcerate him.

She never knew what we discussed in the dressing room until now!

I had the opportunity to discuss this with him a year before he passed away.* Mr.Brown was performing in Oakland and so recognizing a true ‘brother in arms’ I reached out. He responded. Yes yes yes, we discussed other stuff too, but we touched upon the importance of bathrooms to men in that short, simply way in which only two men bonded by deep understanding could do. As I remember, the conversation went something like this.

ME: Mr.Brown, I just wanted to say that whilst I once ridiculed you for your stance on bathrooms, I now not only understand it, I applaud it! Good Lord man, how the HELL did you survive all those years beforehand?

MR.BROWN: It was tough young Steffan, it was tough…when I was younger, with time, patience and no kids, I just stuck it out, other times I bolted the damn door so tight you’d have needed dynamite to get in, but for  much of the time in thee later years I wore headphones or earplugs so as I could not hear anyone.

ME: So you suffered the personal interruptions every Goddamn day too? Not just the filthy, disgusting criminals who compromised your sanctity with their useage?

MR.BROWN: Absolutely, abso-lutely! Of course my way of dealing with that was to run a very small electric wire around the door-frame,like what farmers have to keep sheep and cows in, with a light ‘charge’ and that soon dissuaded the would-be interlopers from ruining my can-time! Some would say that’s cruel, but to me, it was a way of signaling boundaries, which are important things to learn about in life. And as I have always said, you shit in another man’s toilet and you’re shittin’ on HIM! Which is not cool!

ME: What a fantastic idea!!! No-one ever got hurt?

MR.BROWN: Naaaaaa, of course not, that wouldn’t be right either. The point wasn’t to hurt people, it was to educate them! Nah, you just gotta juice it up enough to where they know that if they keep on fuckin’ with your toilet time, that it ain’t gonna feel good for anyone!!!

ME: Inspirational Sir!!! I thank you.

MR.BROWN: Not at all young Steffan…and let me guess…you’re a father right? 

ME: YES!

MR.BROWN: Coupla kids runnin’ around?

ME: YES YES!

MR.BROWN: Son…a few words of advice. Firstly, when in your sanctuary, develop the hearin’ of Helen Keller, the self-belief of prime-time Ali and the air of a President; remember, that’s YOUR time they’re messin’ with! And second? Get your own can…because without that, there can be no true peace between husband and wife, father or kids. Trust me on that one…

Of course the Godfather of Soul was right. And  when my means become as such that I can install a third bathroom around here, then it shall be done. It will be soundproofed, it will have a reading-rack which will hold all the finest publications from around the world, it will have a laptop computer on a swivel arm, it will have a small, flat-screen monitor into which soccer will be instantly available and it will have various types of lighting depending on what’s necessary. It will be mine!!! And no-one else will be ALLOWED TO USE IT OR INTERRUPT ME WHILST I USE IT!

 

 

 

*It is wholly possible I have got vast portions of our conversation completely wrong.

EVERYONE HAS THEIR DAY IN COURT…

It’s tough to know which was worse, the teenager getting a ticket to appear in court for not having his Muni pass with him on the train, or the pre-schooler discovering Barney the purple fucking dino-fucking-saur. 

I avoided that malevolent mauve moron for the teenager’s entire childhood; I didn’t even hum ‘I hate you, you hate me’ around the house for fear he’d want to know where it came from. And to be honest, I thought it had gone the way of the dodo, thus indemnifying me from dealing with it during her childhood. But alas no. The bastard is very much alive and kicking, a blubby paragon of ‘midwestern values’ and virtue. Confucious once said from atop a smokey mountain  that (and I quote) ‘if THAT is the definition of virtue, then consider me to be the most unvirtuous, dirty, filthy piece of shit ever to crawl the Earth’  and not only do I know exactly what he means, in this instance I resemble that remark. I mean, think about it…even an ancient Chinese philosopher saw ‘it’ coming!  I will thus be ‘hiding/losing/returning to the library by accident’ said DVD as soon as humanly possible.

Anyway, the ticket for the teenager. He received said-citation from an apparently fat, miserable and humorless ticket women with firestarter specs and a thick, near-inaudible accent (to be fair, all the preceding are jolly good reasons to be miserable in my book) and I feel sure that the deft combination of his mumbled monosyllabic tone and her heft-induced grumpiness created the sort of feelgood atmosphere that manifested itself as a $108 fine plus a demand to appear in juvenile court. Wonderful. All over a 50 cent fare versus a forgotten bus pass. I know I know, let one get away with it and they all want to get away with it, but Jesus, how about a little perspective?And if you DO need to punish him, how about a $40 fine and be done with it? Why does it have to become this big palaver? So yes,  I thought it was absurd, though I did lambast the youth for forgetting his pass (“You only have to remember to brush your teeth, get dressed, engage your brain and bring your wallet and keys with you for Christ’s sake, is that really so fucking hard?!”) but nontheless I saw it as an opportunity; an opportunity to show him that the world, the wonderful benevolent, warm and fuzzy world, every so often demands that you tap dance in a monkey suit in front of the elected guardians of our society.

This meant that I ordered him to wear black pants and get his black jacket, to find a shirt and to make sure he was clean-shaven (because we are currently at the age where facial hair means you-are-the-maaaan and I explained in no uncertain terms that in THIS instance he would NOT be viewed as ‘the man’ more than  a reprobate). 

We made our way to the Juvenile Justice building (sounds like a sponsored concert venue) and having gone through a metal detector (I wasn’t carrying my my semi-automatic or knuckle-duster, not because I’d planned it but just because I forget them) we wound our way downstairs. The teenager looked at me as though he wanted guidance. “Read the bloody ticket!” I said, my way of spreading some responsibility. 

“Ugggh!” the criminal fare-dodger groaned, ” we have to go upstairs to the third floor!”

“An early lesson in cheap beurocracy all of this!” I fired off, “different floors every five minutes, a distinct lack of smiling, you want to hope the delinquents ahead of you haven’t worn the Beak down, because if they have, it’s going to be tough!”

He looked miserable.

“So, do you know what you’re going to say?”

“Yeah, I’m going to say I’m very sorry but I forgot my bus pass and that I plead guilty to the charge.”

“Good. And call the judge ‘your honor’ because that’s what you have to do.”

He checked his clothing.

“If I don’t get off after putting this on, I’m going to be pissed off!”

“I don’t think you have any latitude to be getting pissed off right now about anything!” I rumbled in a rumbly ‘big-voiced-parent type way.

“Ughhhhhhh!” he said by way of a reply.

The elevator doors opened (being a public lift used mostly by potential young offenders, it was poorly maintained and traveled at snail speed) and there, before us, was the third floor. A pot-pourri of baggy-panted youth with nary a belt between them, nervous looking public defenders twittering* into thin air and giant, sweaty, angry looking cops and sheriffs prowling around, prodding clumps of teen into over-filled rooms with no air-conditioning. It’s fair to say that we had before us  the proverbial human zoo.

We made our way along the thin corridor lined with miscreants smacking gum or spouting curses (“IT AIN’T MAH FAULT THE FUCKIN’ BEYATCH IS A FUCKIN’ HO’ WHO DON’T BELIEVE ME!” was one I caught) and found the traffic citation waiting room. Inside were three youths, beltless between them as seemed to be the norm for this establishment, having a conversation where every sentence contained the phrase ‘ma nigga’ at least twice. Meanwhile, old suited-and-booted beside me was quiet. I don’t think he was ruffled at all, he’s worked with many youths like this, but I do think the situation’s relative lack of comfort was starting to bear down on him. Either that or he was hungry, it was tough to tell.

His name was called and in we went to a small room where there sat a judge in front of a table. No jury of our peers, not even a stenographer, just some bored, yawning policewoman. She ran through the charge and asked him how he pled. He said guilty, but before he could throw out his excuse, she was motoring ahead. I quietly suggested he ask if he could speak. He did and she let him. His delivery wasn’t Al Pacino, but to be fair he made his point politely enough. Indeed, in the great arena of monkey-suited tap-dancing, he had passed the test, although given the standard of competition on the 3rd floor, had he failed I’d have checked to see if his arms were longer than his body or his knuckles dragged on the floor.

“I am going to offer you the chance to take a 3 hour life management skills course,” said the judge, “the class will cost you $40 but the fine will be waived so long as you complete the class.”

It was, as one says, a no-brainer. And with a few smiles and a ‘thank you’ we were out. 

As we got to the car, he expressed relief.

“I’m just happy I don’t have to pay the fine!” he sighed.

“It’s essentially a $40 ticket and the social equivalent of traffic school,” I said.

“Yeah…” he paused. “Err, Dad…remember you said you’d help me with the fine if it was the full-fine?”

“I remember saying I’d consider it!” I snapped back.

“Well, would you split this one with me?”

“What, $40?!!!” I laughed, “you are taking the piss now…enjoy the out of jail card and get some money from the bank.”

“…OK OK…”

Later that night, at work in the ballpark, he had his best night ever for tips, pulling in $90. His average tip-take was around 20-25. Already he was back in the saddle, class money in hand and a tired but enthusiastic smile on his face. And whilst he will never forget his trip to Juvenile Court, 10 hours and $90 later the memory had significantly dimmed…

 

* How sad I should have to do this; when I say ‘twittering’ I mean twittering in the ‘nervous talking’ sense and not the useless texting or typing sense in which most people now interpret the word and it’s various cousins.

SHE’S SOMETHING THAT BORDER COLLIE…

 

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?!!!!

TIME WITH THE TEENAGER…

I haven’t said much about the teenager in recent weeks because, frankly, there hasn’t been much to say. Trust me, this is a good thing. Aside from the occasional collapse into primordial whinging, the occasional ‘I am the world and nothing else exists’ space-out plus a little too sister-ribbing at the dinner table, he is a rare bird. The non-problematic teenager. Even his hair has calmed down. Compared to the horror stories I’ve been told, his is a tranquil teenage existence, and whilst I know he’s only going to be 17 in May and there’s plenty of time for it to get worse, I’ve been fearing such decline since 13 and it hasn’t happened like ‘they’ said it would yet.

We took off to the home of the San Francisco Spurs Supporters Club the other day to watch the boys in action along with a stack of other people. Dirty songs were sung and there was liberal use of Anglo-Saxon English throughout the match, most of it unfortunately from me but he wasn’t beyond a few choice morsals himself. I’ve always had my own rule on this; IF cursing occurs whilst watching footy, it is fine. IF cursing occurs whilst not watching footy, it is not fine. ‘Watching footy’ extends itself to cover the times before and after a match when you’re either gearing up or winding down.

When we’re in the UK and actually at a live match, I will now share a pre-match pint with him (legal in the UK, well, sort of, I mean as long as you’re not wearing short trousers and a school uniform, most people turn a blind eye). I once shared two with him. He fell asleep on the drive home, but he was also fighting jet-lag it must be said, having arrived that time in the UK only the day before.

I understand that to some people here, bringing your nearly-17 year old son to pubs to watch football, to matches back home, allowing (and indeed, encouraging) the singing of songs which make dirty limericks seem like nursery rhymes and allowing him to drink the odd beer with you would be considered irresponsible. Starting with the US government, for whom as I understand it, some of the above would be defined ‘illegal.’ To which I say, bollocks. Or even, bollocks and could you pass me a beer please? I mean seriously, as long as context is applied, such things are not only FUN times to share with your teenager, but HEALTHY. My son understands that the language used whilst watching Spurs is not necessarily for everyday speech, and further, he is not remotely interested in trying to guzzle alcohol whenever my back is turned. In fact, I’d argue that it’s been an IMPORTANT part of his upbringing. He has, thanks to a couple of beers now and then plus a smattering of four-letter words in the presence of his father, learnt WHEN it’s appropriate to behave like a reprobate/neanderthal/be-a-geezer, versus the alternative which would see the poor lad explode in teenage immaturity whenever beyond my gaze and most likely in the worst of places and at the worst of times.

We also go to the movies. Yes, ’tis true, Jason Statham films are enjoyed by us in all their glorious ‘geezerness’, but equally, films like Polanski’s “The Pianist” and Kubrick’s “A Clockwork Orange” are not only watched, but discussed in great detail. We’ll visit art galleries from time to time, not because I think you HAVE to, but because there’s sometimes something I’m really interested to see, and as such (being that he’s my son) I want to expose him to it too. He’s seen exhibitions featuring Damien Hirst, Matthew Barney, Olafur Eliasson, Gerhard Richter  and as recently noted, we went to an Andy Warhol retrospective with his sister. We discuss politics from time to time (although to be fair, we’re more likely to discuss football, but we touch base on world affairs) and as I drive him to school in the mornings, we listen to 92.7 Energy’s Fernando & Greg in the morning, a hilarious morning show with a decidedly gay bent as both the presenters are gay. We’ve also been to many, many gigs, as much because of my work as anything, but nonetheless, major gigs with superb and supremely loud music at a late hour. 

He is exposed to many things, a menagerie of material actually, which is why when I think about people who never swear in front of their children, or who never allow a sip of alcohol to pass their children’s lips in their presence, is laughable. In fact, I consider such repression/repressive attitudes to be one of the biggest problems in society, as it breeds a creature literally itching to engorge themselves on what they sadly view as ‘verboeten’ behavior. And when it comes to fathers and sons, it is VITAL that the relationship embraces all angles of being a man, and not just the ‘you-listen-I-tell-you’ dynamic which, if pursued vigorously through childhood, will end with a series of curiously mute ‘exchanges’ between father and son during the later teenage years.

So whatever the government or prudish members of the public might think, I will continue to go and watch football at silly hours in bars with my son, making sure we belt out our usual array of colorful songs and saucy language, and when we go to the UK I will absolutely make sure he enjoys a beer or two before the match (no more). When the opportunity to see a wonderfully shitty yet entertaining movie arises, we’ll be there, equally, if a great piece of cinema presents itself, count us in. Good art? Not an issue, let’s go. And thus, as he makes his way further into the world of independence, I can feel comfortable about the man I’ve helped raise who’s going into it. Balanced. Kind. Aware. Sensitive. Funny. Loving. Occasionally a pain in the arse of course, but overall, great value for any social event, and generally a credit to himself. His manners and personal conduct are, as I would expect, decent with me but more importantly excellent when he’s not around me. I know this because I hear it from others, and they’re not the sort of people to blow smoke anywhere, trust me.

So in closing, a few words of advice to young fathers with their sons. Enjoy the pleasures of music together. If you enjoy sport, get out there and play, sure, but also GO TO SOME LIVE GAMES and watch games on the TV when you can; it’s your biological right. Don’t be bullied into thinking otherwise. Make sure you bring your boys to the cinema a fair few times, if only so as they appreciate the big screen over small, and if there’s a painting or sculpture you like, make ‘em go with you and explain WHY you like (because none of them really LIKE it at first -unless you’re looking at a Damien Hirst pickle- but in the end they find full appreciation of it)…and for fuck’s sake, DO NOT BE AFRAID OF SWEARING ONCE IN A FUCKING WHILE!!!! They WILL survive so long as they understand the power of context and the necessity of gauging situations. 

You might well receive opposition to some of these activities from your other half, but it’s OK…this is part of the deal, and quite simply, you must force the issue for the good of everyone. Not the least your boys. Because believe me, when your old and grey, the memories you’ll share with your boy(s) by the fireplace will include times such as when you went up to Leeds following Spurs and sang “Fat Aussie Wanker, he’s just a Fat Aussie Wanker!” as much as that family picnic on 4th of July. 

“Dad? What’s a slapper?” he once asked me after an extended chorus of ‘here for the slappers’ rung around St.James Park four years ago, Spurs about to close out a 1-0 defeat of Newcastle*….those are the moments, and those are the questions, you’ll laugh about forever. In order to do so, however, you have to share them in the first place. So be sure you do.

 

 

*As we walked to get dinner in the early evening, dozens of young women tottered around in high heels with micro-skirts, clearly out-numbering the young blokes and seemingly up for a fun evening. “Remember that question you asked?” I said to the boy. He nodded. And I simply pointed at a gaggle of the young women who had congregated outside a wine-bar. He looked at me and nodded again. Not another word was spoken. We both knew he’d understood. He was 13 years old. I reiterated the ‘phrase & context’ speech, and he understood.

WHEN ENERGY AND PATIENCE COLLIDE…IT’S JUST PART OF LIFE

Where, oh where oh where oh where, do small children get their boundless amounts of energy from? Last night, I took off to see my favorite action hero, Jason Statham, in the glorrifically un-PC “Crank 2,” a film so utterly and wonderfully tasteless that in 88 minutes it voraciously insults everyone for you without the dirty imprint of such stigmas staining your skin. Theraputic after an aggravating day? Oh I think so. Anyhow, Statham has a plastic heart for most of the film, and as such needs to ‘juice’ himself with violent amounts of electricity to stay alive until he finds his real one. Thus we see Statham connecting himself to car batteries, to power outlets and to power poles.It is not Tarchovsky or Kubrick, but it is supreme vulgar and escapist entertainment of the most visceral order. And as I drove home, chuckling at the sheer insanity of Statham’s energy, I resolved to make sure socket plugs were firmly in place back at home, because whilst the pre-schooler does not combust or punch Triad gang members to oblivion, she can certainly wear down her Mum and Dad with a relentless combination of action, question and sheer need. In fact, one of those relentless combinations was the reason i got in the damn car and drove to see “Crank 2″ in the first place!

Whilst said-pre-schooler’s combination is for the large part manageable and fun, there are times when it really isn’t. You know, as you sit on the throne trying to steal 5-10 minutes peace and quiet only to hear the mini-hammer at the door, banging away, asking for help with this or that or the other. When you’re trying to sleep later than 6 am, though to be fair my wife takes the brunt of that strain as her maternal hearing is better than mine (being a mater and all). When you’re trying to make dinner, when you’re trying to get ready to get out of the house, I don’t know, sometimes it seems like all the time. 

And then comes the grumpy cloud. You turn into ever such a bit of a dick. Sarcasm rears it’s ugly head. And then bursts of frustration. You end up sounding like an Italian family having a dinner-time squabble, unintelligable high-pitched shrieks and grunts punctuated occasionally with the sound of your hands slapping against your ears.

And then comes the guilt.

Because let it not be ignored, every single parent feels guilt from time to time. Guilt that they cannot be more patient. Guilt that their reactions are not like the textbooks say they should be. Guilt that they cannot control their anger better. Guilt that they simply cannot be better people sometimes towards their kids. And unless it’s caught quickly and processed evenly, that guilt becomes anger in itself, and before you know it, you’ve wasted a few hours being grumpy and angry that you’re not the model of soothing parental perfection society always seems to pop out as it’s public face.

I’m not going to get new-age here and deliver a formula to tell you how you can avoid ever having these moments again. I am not a guru. And you know what? Even if I was and I told you I had the answer, I’d be a liar. Because the truth is, no-one has, and the deeper truth to THAT is because there IS no answer. It’s simply human nature. It’s simply the way it is. And the dark, dirty secret of life is that in EVERY house in EVERY city in EVERY country which has children, parents will sometimes feel ALL of those things just mentioned. 

It’s not a popular thing to admit. Indeed, such is the fear in our society to admit that ANYTHING we do is sometimes imperfect that you can bet your last dollar no-one will admit as much to YOU at the sandbox, but it is a fact! Just like it’s a fact that everyone has had zits and that everyone has (and likely still does) masturbate. Well add ‘not being the greatest parent in the world always’ to that list, because for my money, the sooner all parents start accepting that they are, on occasions, unreasonable and even total dicks to their children, the better off we’d all be for it. 

It’s not rocket-science figuring out why. The majority of parents are in their mid-30s, some in their early 40s. And unless you have a phlanx of helpers, chances are that by 7.30pm, your energy levels and expectations of the evening ahead are simply not the same as your children’s. Most of the time it’s fine; you’re ready, you’re able and you’re willing. But sometimes you’d rather drink battery acid, or go and sit in a dark closet with a pillow just to get some rest, or be out with your pals getting hammered, or be in Rio on a beach enjoying pina coladas and various vistas, or you’d rather simply not have to deal. And for a long time I wrestled with the disappointment I felt in myself for feeling like that (I still do occasionally, like this week for example). It didn’t seem right. It seemed wrong. I felt like I was a poor parent for not always being able to navigate around such emotions and aggravations. But this isn’t true. We can’t always be spot-on all the time, and show me someone who claims they are and I will show you either a) a liar or b) someone who has nannies and au pairs step in before they reach those times in the day.

A long time ago, when the teenager was in primary school, I came upon the notion that if I was in ‘dickhead’ form as I like to self-recognize (n.b. this is not a medical term) that i would immediately inform him and let him know that ‘Dad was a bit grumpy so please go easy on him and that it was nothing to do with him at all, that it was just Dad’s thing.’ At least, I reasoned, they wouldn’t think it was them. 

And recently, with the pre-schooler, thanks to a heady combination of no-napping, early rising, extreme energy and the occasional wander down Anxiety Avenue, my exasperation (caused, no doubt, by my own lack of sleep time-table…fruit and trees eh?…) demanded that I dig deep and try to find something else. So we made a deal. If she wound me up, if I was too grumpy to her, if we were BOTH grating each other like nails on chalkboard, then even if we’d exchanged a cross-word or 20, we’d make sure we gave out a big, strong hug. A positive release of pressure and frustration. Because seriously, sometimes there’s nothing else left to do other than stew in it.

What it means is that I am still, sadly, inevitably and naturally, an occasionally inadequate dickhead in my dealings with the kids. It’s not right, it’s not wrong, it just ‘is’ part of normal, everyday life. And whilst it’s still hard for me to accept that, accept it I do as much as I can. At least now, along with the standard apology, they get a hug at the end of it all.

DRUGS & FRUIT JUICE

“DO YOU HEAR ME SON, I want one of every single fucking drug you sell, double-strength, and I want them in a brown paper bag which I’ll pick up in 25 minutes, otherwise I’ll administer fruit juice to you in ways you never dreamed were possible…you hear me son?“

“(muffled sound, wind) Fru…fruit joooooce…OK. Yes.”

“You like the sound of that son, really? REALLY?”

“Your drugs are…they’re here Mr….drugs…”

At this point, I assume you’re wondering what this has to do with parenting, and if you’re not then consider yourself a filthy deviant who needs more help than most. Regardless, allow me to explain.

The teenager has friends. Those friends have phones. Those phones are potential prank call weapons. It is the sort of awareness you need when the parent of one of these tribal miscreants, because you never know when they’re going to jump on your back and take you down with a bit of cheese-wire…a slight dramatic license I’ll grant you, but what I’m driving at is the youth’s ability to get you when you least expect it, to exploit your vulnerability. And being that we’re in the age (and culture) where everyone has a cellphone, it is the easiest and most accessible medium.

So there I was, toodling along from a playgroup with the pre-schooler in the back, rush-hour traffic not touching my world too badly when my phone rings. I pop my ear-piece in and press the ‘talk’ button. I do not recognize the number, though it is local. My guard is already up.

“Hello,” I say gruffly.

“H…he…helloMrShitarsey, MrShitarsey you drugs…drugs in parking lot for your son…I have drugs for him you collect…”

“Stop mumbling and speak up goddamit!!!!”

“YesisthisMrShitarsy?”

“MR SHITARSY?”

“YesMrShitarsy is, uh, you because we have son’s drugs in parking lot of Safeway, 16th St…”

“(trying to figure out which one of his various mob it is, settle on name, decide to ride this dog & pony show to the bitter end) SHITARSY EH? Drugs…yeah I want the drugs. I want them all. I’m a Shitarsy who wants the goddam drugs. You got them all?”

“(voice brightens a touch) Yes! In parking lot, you can collect from Safeway, in parking lot, pharmacy drugs…”

“OK son, listen here and listen good (my ‘tough guy Americanism that, ‘listen good’). I want all the drugs you have, at double-strength, in a brown paper bag and I’m coming over to get them in 25 minutes you hear me?”

“Wh…wh..wha…drugs in parking lot, your son’s…”

At this point I decide, off the cuff, to scream as loudly as I can.

“AIIIIIIIIEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEE!”

There is no reaction, just ambient noise and wind.

(Pre-schooler from backseat: Dad, what are you doing?

Me to pre-schooler: Dealing with miscreant friends of your brothers.’)

“So anyway, did you hear me? Every fucking drug you have AT DOUBLE STRENGTH IN A BROWN BAG IN 25 MINUTES?”

“Y…yes, you collect from Safeway at 16th Street.” 

“DO YOU HEAR ME SON, I want one of every single fucking drug you sell, double-strength, and I want them in a brown paper bag which I’ll pick up in 25 minutes, otherwise I’ll administer fruit juice to you in ways you never dreamed were possible…you hear me son?”

“(muffled sound, wind) Fru…fruit joooooce…OK. Yes.”

“You like the sound of that son, really? REALLY?”

“Your drugs are…they’re here Mr….drugs…”

I was closing in on home and the traffic was getting a bit thicker, thus I let out one more manic laugh and hung up.

5 minutes later, my phone rang again with a number I recognized. It actually was the Safeway Pharmacy.

“Good evening sir, are you a Mr …?”

“I am indeed how can I help you?”

“Well your son’s medication was found in the parking lot and has been returned to us so whenever you’d like to come in and pick it up, we have it here…”

“Funny, I just got a call doubtless from one of his miscreant friends trying to pull my chain…but how would they have been able to sign for it? How could someone sign his prescription out without ID?”

“I don’t know anything about that Sir, but the medication disc was found in the parking lot by one of our employees. They said they contacted you but…”

“Hang on, would they have tried me from a cellphone?”

“It’s very possible Sir, I cannot tell you for sure, but…”

“Did this employe have a thick accent, almost teenage sounding but from another country, maybe Latino, a little hard to understand?”

“Well Sir, to be honest he is kinda retarded.”

‘Kinda retarded’…it took me all of 3 seconds to burt out laughing. I had just been yelling at some poor retarded chap, culminating with a threat to administer fruit juice to him in highly despicable and nefarious ways. I was mildly embarrassed but far more amused, especially as I remembered that he’d a replied a straight, crisp ‘yes’ to the threat of the fruit juice administration.

I explained all this to the pharmacy fellow, and he allowed himself a hearty laugh.

“Could you please convey to this gentleman that I am so sorry but I thought he was one of my son’s friends prank-calling me?” Thanks you.

“Absolutely Sir, I will, and thank YOU for making me laugh.”

I sat in silence for a moment before breaking into first a giggle fit and then a panic about the fact that maybe he was part of a larger, more elaborate prank. So I gave the pharmacy one more quick ring. They confirmed that I did, indeed, have a disc waiting for my son. That it had been found by a Safeway employee and handed in. The same Safeway employee to whom I had said I would administer fruit juice in deviant ways unless he got me every single drug they stocked at twice the strength. The retarded Safeway employee. I called the teenager’s mother.

“Yes, I have his meds in the back of the car in a grocery bag!”

“No you don’t, they’re siting at Safeway’s Pharmacy and I’ve just finished 10 minutes of abusing a retarded employee.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pick it up and explain later…”

When I told the teenager what had happened a few hours later, he laughed loudly before asking a very reasonable question.

“Dad. Who do you know that I know who’d do this?”

“I don’t know, maybe someone from where you work, maybe Frankie, I have no idea…”

“Well next time you should think about it because none of my friends could be bothered to do that.”

He’s right. 1-0 to the teenager. Except now, because he has the fuel of this story in him, I suspect he will put one of his buddies up to it. But I’m prepared. And I’ll take the risks…it’s what you have to do when you’re the parent of one of these tribal miscreants…

HAIR TIE LOST IN COFFEE SHOP TOILET: TOT TRAUMATIZED

She had just popped off the toilet seat and pulled her pants up when she directed my gaze towards the bowl.

“Look Dada, a hair-tie.”

I didn’t think much of it. A long-haired woman had vacated the WC moments before, and left behind her such a grotesque smell that I immediately thought it must be hers. It was, at best, a tenuous connection, and perhaps I just wanted to blame her for even more than the noxious fumes I’d had to extinguish with the provided air-freshner (perhaps women in their late 50s/early 60s just don’t care about that sort of thing anymore, juxtaposed with your early 20’s-40’s ladies who actually get poo-shy in public). Anyway, I digress. 

“Oh yes, ” I said distractedly as I pushed the air-freshner’s relief nozzle and the flush at the same time. We left the tilet. And as we descended the stairs back into Farley’s, it began.

“Have I got…two hair-ties still?” she said, frantically slapping her head. 

“No, just the main one…oh wow, that one must’ve been yours.”

It was as though I had pierced her skin with a red-hot poker. She literally exploded into tears, a loud, wounded cry roaring from her mouth. To me, it was the sort of disproportionately bizarre action you used to see at school from certain teachers (you know, you broke a pencil or accidently belched and the next thing either your bum was wearing the headmaster’s whipping stick stripes or there was a letter demanding your expulsion en route to parents). I simply could not make sense of it.

“What on earth is going on honey?” I tried. 

“IT’S GONE IT’S GONE DOWN THE TOILET AND IT WAS TONI’S SHE GAVE IT TO ME AND IT’S GONE WUUAAAAHHHHHHHH…”

Toni is her after-school sitter for three days a week, and as such, it is wholly possible that she would’ve given the pre-schooler a hair tie. Equally, I was comfortable in the knowledge that it likely came from a pack of  80, sold at Walgreens for $1.19 or something, and that as such, it’s loss would not be mourned by Toni like, say, a flushed $100 bill might be. I immediately set about making this clear.

“It’s fine honey, it was an accident and I can assure you she will not be bothered at all.”

“B..B…BUT IT’S GONE, IT’S GONE AND IT WAS TONI’S AND IT’S GONE…”

“Look at me honey. Trust me. She will be fine about it. It is not a big deal.”

By this point she was still wailing like operatic Italian funeral, and I realized she needed to be ’shocked’ into a reset. Thus I swept her up, marched her outside and sat her down.

“Listen. This is ridiculous. You must trust me. Toni will be fine about it. We can get her another one of it’s that much of an issue. Now just take some deeeeep breaths (deep breaths were taken), wipe your face with this tissue and let’s move on.” 

“Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Will you call Toni?”

“Of course, she will be fine, trust me.”

“And can we get more?”

“Yes, of course we can.”

“and Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Where has the hair tie that was flushed down the toilet gone?”

Quickly realizing we needed a shot of humor and imagination, I drew on the title of a favorite film.

“It’s swimming all the way to Madagascar!”

“Heee hee hee, it’s gone to Madagascar!” she giggled. Game, set and match I thought. Life can continue…

 

A few hours later we were driving, just running errands.

“Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Is the hair tie going to Madagascar?”

“Yes it is, I told you already, please forget about the hair tie, really, it’s fine.”

“OK…

…

…

Daddy?”

“YES!”

“Did you speak to Toni?”

” I couldnt get her on the phone, TRUST ME, SHE WILL NOT CARE (ABOUT THE POXY FUCKING .5 CENT STUPID FUCKING HAIR FUCKING TIE…) I didn’t say the bit in parenthesis, buy by God I thought it.

“Why? Why couldn’t you find her?”

“Because she texted me to say she has a temperature of 103.5, so she actually has some more pressing issues to attend to right now if you can believe that. Which you should. Because it will be OK!”

“Oh…

…

…

…

Daddy?”

“(blood pressure rising, teeth gritting like a council truck on an icy road) YES! WHAT IS IT?!”

“You shouldn’t have flushed the toilet because that’s why Toni’s hair-tie is on it’s way to Madagascar.”

“(approaching defcon) JESUS CHRIST, WIL YOU LET IT GO AND TRUST ME, IT DOESN’T MATTER! IT’S FINE! NO WORLD WARS WILL START. And ANYWAY, the moment a hair tie hits toilet water, it is officially dead to me…”

As I said it, I knew…her tears were welling up.

“Did you say dead Daddy? What do you mean? I thought it was going to Madagascar?”

“Figure of speech figure of speech, it’s alive, but I meant I wouldn’t use a hair-tie that had swum in fecal waters.”

“Fecal waters?”

“POOEY WATERS!”

“Hee hee hee, pooey WATERS!”

Thank God for that. And once I’d put The Prodigy’s ‘Take Me To The Hospital’ on, I thought we were out of the waters. Indeed, we picked up Mum a few hours later having not said anything about it. Mum got in the car. The pre-schoolers face dropped.

“Mama…Toni’s hair tie fell in the toilet and Dada flushed it to Madagascar…was that Toni’s or was it yours?”

“Yours!” I grit-whispered.

“Mine,” she said confidently.

“Well…I don’t think it was yours Mama, I think it was Toni’s because it was brown.”

“Why are you still worrying about it?” I asked, “how many times can I tell you to trust me, that it’s fine!”

“I don’t know, why am I still worrying about it Dada?”

“I don’t know. But you must learn to let it go, you don’t need to fixate or worry about it. Please. For your own good. We can get some new ones if you want and we’ll give them to her tomorrow.”

“OK.”

It only came up three more times before bed, so progress was contextually rampant.

She ran into the bedroom this morning and yelled ‘wake up wake up WAAAAKKKEEE UPPPPPPP’ like she often does, except immediately she started talking about it. yes. It.

“Daddy…we have to get Toni hair-ties OK? And can you talk to her about it? Will you tell her it went to Madagascar because I accidently put it in the toilet and yiu flushed?”

“Yes,” I replied calmly with a smile, “yes I will.”

And I did. On both counts. A new packet of $2 wonders was presented to Toni, and before it could escape her little lips, I explained in grave detail the entire accident. At first Toni looked at me like I was a crazy man, which was a relief actually because after telling that story to someone who hadn’t lived it you SHOULD sound like one. And she speedily said she did not, indeed, give a monkey’s chuff about it, that it was fine, and furthermore she was delighted to receive a whole package of new ones. Thus I have to believe that the  hair tie drama has concluded.

There again, I haven’t picked her up yet.

 

**************************************************

The teenager has a new job, working the ball-park concessions, and thus far it’s going very well. Indeed, last night he told me this little sales story (he was strapped with a 50lb coffee aqualung and walking the stands). Apparently, when a customer asked about the coffee, he asked the teenager if ‘it came with real cream or that fake shit, because I don’t like that fake shit.’ Quick as a flash the teenager replied, ‘Sorry Sir, it comes with that white shit.’ The customer started laughing and said, ‘that’s cool, because you actually said ‘white shit’ I’m going to buy one.’

I offer up this story because quite frankly, I am pleased a proud that my son’s judicious use of sarcasm and bone-dry humor were exercised so cleverly. It’s a fine line knowing when to say ’shit’ at your job, and whilst I always felt he has a great sense of the moment, you can never be sure until it arrives. It did, and he took the opportunity well.

He told me he’s made some great tips. With his superb combination of manners and humor like that, I’m not surprised.