Daddy: "Guys come and eat before the cats get at your food."
Isobel: "What are we having?"
Daddy: "T.V. dinners."
Isobel: "What is that?"
The Boy: "Hungry man Izzy. He means Hungry man."
Daddy: "I do. Chester! Get off that god-damned table! Izzy, Get the cat away from your food."
The Boy: "Hey Sid, thanks for getting the Hungry man...Georgie! Get off the damn table."
Daddy: "Don't thank me, it was Mummy who bought...jesus christ cat, will you get off the table!"
Isobel: "Daddy, Chester keeps bugging me."
Daddy: "Yes, he's an ass. Just keep telling him to get down."
Isobel: "OK but I don't want to say that word."
Daddy: "You don't have to say any words you don't want to."
Isobel: "OK. Chester, get the shit off the table!"
I have been wondering lately if it might be time to hang this up, maybe put it to bed. It has been going on for over two years now and my biggest fear has always been that it might become stale and predictable. Perhaps it already has but the fact remains that just when I think I haven't anything left to write about, something wonderful comes out of Isobel or The Boy and I find myself recharged at least for another week. And maybe in some kind of way that is what it is to be a parent. Just when you've run out of answers, patience, or herb and garlic cream cheese and the children are literally gnawing at your last nerve, they turn around and do something that makes you say "I am supposed to be doing this. These are my kids. I get it." Ultimately I suppose it is up to you the reader whether or not I should continue. If you're still reading, I'm still writing.
Isobel was in the bathroom doing her make up when I walked in to see what she was doing.
"Whatcha doing Pick?" I asked.
"I'm doing my make up." she replied.
"Alice Cooper make up?"
"What?" she kind of screeched. "I don't like Alice Cooper."
"What?" I kind of screeched. "You don't like The Coop?"
"Daddy, I don't even know who that is."
"What!?!" I really screeched. "What do you mean you don't know who that is, you wanted to be him for Halloween a couple of years ago."
"Are you kidding?" she asked.
I think she was serious, she didn't remember. I was a little shocked. I knew she wouldn't likely retain a lot form her childhood memory bank but this, some of her interests had changed over the course of a summer-last summer and she had next to no memory of them at all.
"You don't remember that?" I asked.
"Uh no." Isobel replied.
"We should talk," I said. "You loved all the heavy bands. All the ones with make up anyway. Kiss, Alice Cooper and even some of the really heavy stuff. As long as they wore make up."
"Daddy," she said. "I don't like that kind of stuff."
"You might not now but you did, you loved it." I said. "You can ask Mummy when she gets home, you used to play it over and over and over."
I wasn't entirely convinced that she didn't remember any of this. She had friends at school now who were definitely not the make up wearing, satan worshipping, head banging lunatic that Isobel was well on her way to being. Isobel has never had a problem with being different but maybe she just didn't want to be THAT different before the first grade.
So we sat and I watched the videos that she and I used to watch together and she stared in amazement, dumbfounded by the images on the screen.
"Oh god, Daddy. There's no way I ever listened to any of that."
I put on the Dimmu Borgir video that she watched every day for nearly a month straight...nothing. She really didn't remember it. And though she remembered her beloved Black Veil Brides, she wasn't interested in their new song....what the hell was going on here?
I decided I would see if she remembered any of her classic bits. I told her about the minions and her threats of punishment if they didn't follow everything she said.
"What?" she asked with that tone that says the old man has gone off his nut.
"No really," I said. "You would scream at them day and night. Mummy and I always laughed and wondered why they kept hanging around you because you treated them some badly."
She looked at me in disbelief, clearly she thought I was making it all up.
"And what about Santa?" I asked.
"What about Santa?" Isobel replied. "I used to play with The dancing Santa.""Oh my god," I said. Santa was your right hand man,your trusted lieutenant."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean wherever you went, Santa went. You carried him around and loved him and cuddled him and where is he now? Forgotten and dirty in the back of my car."
"Daddy, I don't play like that anymore. I'm grown up now."
"I guess maybe you are, Pick." I said. I felt a little bit dejected by it.
I guess I get it now, why at 43 I am still my Mother's baby. Nobody wants there child to grow up. Nobody wants Daddy's little girl or Mummy's little man to be so big for real . The sooner they grow up, the sooner they don't need you anymore. I mean all this metaphorically of course. When she and The Boy hit 18 they're both outta here.
Later on that day she went out to play. She still plays in my car, yes but now it's more sitting on the hood and staring at the sky than delivering a fire and brimstone sermon to the minions. I went out to call her in for supper I stood by the door, about to call her in and I noticed she had Santa. She looked at him and threw him in the car. Then she did something I didn't figure. She opened the door, grabbed Santa, wiped off his face and then gave him a hug before she placed him back on the backseat of my car.
I called her in for supper. I didn't make any mention of what I had seen her do but the smile she gave me as she walked into the house told be she knew I saw her. I guess maybe she isn't quite ready to be that grown up.
She went outside after school today and I went out to see what she was doing. I noticed Santa on the ground and I turned him over. Santa has the perfect imprint of a six year old boot across his face.
"What's this?" I asked pointing at the boot print.
She shrugged her shoulders and said "Santa just doesn't listen like he used to."
There is a sound that I think most parents will agree, is terrifying. That is the sound of silence. I don't mean like the kids have gone to the sitters for the weekend and there's no noise in the house or that they have both finally gotten into a movie enough that they have actually managed to shut up and stop fighting with each other for more than twenty minutes.
No, what I mean is the silence that tells you instantly that something is wrong. I heard such a silence this weekend. Isobel wanted an apple and she also decided to have a glass of water to wash it down. This is not an unusual thing. She has had food and a drink any number of times without incident and she's six. You'd think that you couldn't make it this far and not know how to eat and drink. Hell, she can walk and chew gum at the same time...I've seen it.
I was in the kitchen doing the dishes and she was in the living room out of my sight but apparently not out of my hearing. Even over the noise of the dish water, I knew something was the matter. I can't explain it other than to say something didn't sound right. I turned of the water and there was that silence.
She walked out into the kitchen and I could see by the look on her face that something was very wrong. My first thought was that she was choking on the apple. I ran over to her, fully prepare to do the Heimlich on her. As I reached to grab her, she sputtered and coughed and let out a gigantic burp."I'm OK!" she said in a proud tone.
"What the hell was that?" I asked. "I thought you were choking on the apple."
"Nope," she coughed and burped again. "Water went down the wrong hole."
"Oooh, that sucks. Have a sip of water, that'll help."
"Are you crazy?" she asked. "Water made me choke, remember?"
"For real," I said. "Have a sip."
She had a sip and felt better.
I returned to the kitchen and after another moment or two of coughing, I saw her walk by, arms raised in triumph.
"I'm OK!"
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