Fifteen
By Leslie Monsour
The boys who fled my father’s house in fear
Of what his wrath would cost them if he found
Them nibbling slowly at his daughter’s ear,
Would vanish out the back without a sound,
And glide just like the shadow of a crow,
To wait beside the elm tree in the snow.
Something quite deadly rumbled in his voice.
He sniffed the air as if he knew the scent
Of teenage boys, and asked, “What was that noise?”
Then I’d pretend to not know what he meant,
Stand mutely by, my heart immense with dread,
As Father set the traps and went to bed.
We went to Denny’s—the bad one—on Saturday. I excused myself to use the restroom, and nearly opened the door into the face of a ten-year-old boy. His grandfather was washing his hands, and his younger brother was loitering beneath the paper towel dispenser.
‘See, what did I just tell you,’ said Grandpa, over his shoulder. ‘You have to pay attention. You have to watch where you’re standing. That man almost knocked you over.’
I smiled at the boy. ‘I have a four-year-old son, and I have to tell him the same thing.’
And I suddenly realized that I do, have a four-year-old son. That I’m constantly reminding him to look up, look out, watch where he’s going, think before he moves, see you almost ran into that woman. My smile faltered.
Ian is four, this boy was ten. At least. I’m only able to accurately guess a child’s age when Ian reaches that age himself. He could’ve been eleven or twelve, thirteen. I don’t do math, but even I had no problem quickly realizing just how many years I’ll be steering my son away from door jambs and open manholes.
My smile vanished as I realized this was a grandfather. With his grandsons. So just when I can relax, and trust that Ian’s spatial perception won’t lead him into oncoming traffic—or that his health insurance will bridge the gap—I’ll have to contend with the wavering steps of grandchildren.
Anyone know how NERF’s stock is doing?
Spaghetti with meatballs. Turkey meatballs. Murkeyballs. Ian doesn’t eat; to our collective surprise, he eats these.
He’s finished the meat and only noodles remain, cooling and covered in Parmesan. He eats string by string, tilting his head back as far as he can, a cavalier sword-swallower dropping noodles into his mouth. The pasta falls into coils, and he chews.
Kelly quarters a meatball and waits. His head tilts, and she waits. When his eyes are staring at the ceiling her fork darts forward, silently placing a slice of meat onto his plate. Crouching tiger, hidden Mama Celeste.
His chin falls and his eyes follow, landing on the intruder. He frowns, glances between me and Kelly and the meatball. Theories flicker behind his eyes, which narrow. He is suspicious. I’ve met my quota…haven’t I? He opens his mouth to speak, but changes his mind and spears the meatball. He chews.
Kelly’s eyes meet mine and they swell with wonder. I—very slightly—shrug.
He reaches for a noodle and Kelly reaches for her fork, quick but greedy. Addicted to the thrill of outwitting a too-clever four-year-old. Tilt, dart, chew.
His chin falls and his eyes follow. ‘Wha…?’ He glares at us. Busted. ‘Heeey!’
An excerpt from The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, by Michael Chabon, which explains perfectly why Ian is not allowed to sleep in our bed.
Detective Landsman has been grazed by a bullet, and taken to a friend’s home to recuperate. His friend has four children, and Landsman has been given his friend’s bed in which to sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Goldy careers into the room. His tread is heavy and lumbering, a baby monster’s. He doesn’t just climb into bed, he roils the blankets the way a wire whisk roils a batter. It’s like he’s fleeing something, panicked, but when Landsman speaks, asks him what’s wrong, the boy doesn’t answer. His eyes are closed, and his heart beats steadily and low. Whatever he was running from, he found shelter from it in his parents’ bed. The kid is sound asleep. He smells like a piece of cut apple that’s starting to turn. He digs his toes into the small of Landsman’s back with care and without mercy. He grinds his teeth. The sound of it is like dull shears on a sheet of tin.
…around four-thirty, the baby starts to scream…Ester-Malke [mother] dumps Pinky between his brother and Landsman and walks out.
Reunited in their parents’ bed, the Shemets boys set up a whistling and rumbling and a blatting of inner valves that would shame the grand pipe organ of Temple Emanu-El. The boys execute a series of maneuvers, a kung fu of slumber, that drives Landsman to the very limit of the bed. They chop at Landsman, stab him with their toes, grunt and mutter. They masticate the fiber of their dreams. Around dawn, something very bad happens in the baby’s diaper. It’s the worst night that Landsman has ever spent on a mattress, and that is saying a good deal.
…
‘…the couch has its points,’ Ester-Malke continues. ‘For example, it features no babies or four-year-olds.’
‘You have a serious toenail problem among your youth,’ Landsman says. ‘Also something, I think it might be a sea otter, died and is rotting in the little one’s diaper.’
(For fans of baseball and fantasy, I also recommend Chabon’s Summerland.)
I was on the prom court in high school. Seriously! I had no business being there. I was Harvey Firestein standing in for Plácido Domingo. I felt self-conscious and awkward; I was also touched. I wasn’t chosen King, but I made a darned good Chamberlain.
It was the first and—so far—only time I wore a sash.
In a similar vein, some kind soul has nominated my blog for this year’s Blogger’s Choice Awards, under the distinguished category of Hottest Daddy Blogger.
Ironically, my wife did not make the nomination. She did, however, vote.
I don’t know that I’m the best of the bunch, but I will say that mine is one of the few blogs not labeled as having Adult Content.
So vote for me, the blogger who posts and swears with equal infrequency!
At Becky’s Piano Recital
By Carl Dennis
She screws her face up as she nears the hard parts,
Then beams with relief as she makes it through,
Just as she did listening on the edge of her chair
To the children who played before her,
Wincing and smiling for them
As if she doesn’t regard them as competitors
And is free of the need to be first
That vexes many all their lives.
I hope she stays like this,
Her windows open on all sides to a breeze
Pungent with sea spray or meadow pollen.
Maybe her patience this morning at the pond
Was another good sign,
The way she waited for the frog to croak again
So she could find its hiding place and admire it.
There it was, in the reeds, to any casual passerby
Only a fist-sized speckled stone.
All the way home she wondered out loud
What kind of enemies a frog must have
To make it live so hidden, so disguised.
Whatever enemies follow her when she’s grown,
Whatever worry or anger drives her at night from her room
To walk in the gusty rain past the town edge,
Her spirit, after an hour, will do what it can
To be distracted by the light of a farmhouse.
What are they doing up there so late,
She’ll wonder, then watch in her mind’s eye
As the family huddles in the kitchen
To worry if the bank will be satisfied
This month with only half a payment,
If the letter from the wandering son
Really means he’s coming home soon.
Even old age won’t cramp her
If she loses herself on her evening walk
In piano music drifting from a house
And imagines the upright in the parlor
And the girl working up the same hard passages.
I remember holding Ian with one arm. He rested lengthwise, head nestled in the crook of my arm. If he wanted to sleep, he turned his face toward my chest. Otherwise he looked away, carried by his weary palanquin, Master to my Blaster.
And I’d sway, pat, sway, pat. Left. Right. Left.
Ian had a cold—again—while Grandpa visited this weekend. At breakfast on Saturday morning, Ian stuffed a banana-smile into his mouth, ate a few bites of pancake, and crawled into my lap.
Strange decision. Grammie’s is the lap of choice when he’s scared or sad or sick, with Mommy a close second. Of course, I don’t complain.
He draped his arms over my shoulders, and slid slowly down, back, down, until his head caught in my elbow. His arms hung, limp, at his sides; his feet went far past my wrists and fingers, off the edge of my lap. He’s grown, length and otherwise. Yesterday we saw a woman holding a python at Grant’s Farm. It was dead weight, resting on her arms and back, sliding downward, so she’d constantly hitch and adjust.
He tried to blink, and nearly made it. He was closer with his smile. I lifted his head to my lips, and we swayed. Left. Right. Left. I hummed into his hair: If I didn’t care / more than words can say / If I didn’t care / would I feel this way…
Ian likes tenderizing me with his fists or hugging me with his forehead. He tackles me from behind and swings his arms in wide, hand-flailing arcs. It’s how we bond, and I don’t see the trend changing any time soon. How much longer will he let me kiss him, or hold his hand, or make him ‘pay the toll’ of a kiss on each cheek?
How long can a cold last?
Child on top of a Greenhouse
By Theodore Roethke
The wind billowing out the seat of my britches,
My feet crackling splinters of glass and dried putty,
The half-grown chrysanthemums staring up like accusers,
Up through the streaked glass, flashing with sunlight,
A few white clouds all rushing eastward,
A line of elms plunging and tossing like horses,
And everyone, everyone pointing up and shouting!
Last week, TIME released an article titled—wait for it—Fatherhood 2.0: ‘Does being more of a father make you less of a man?’
Feel free to read my response on DadBloggers…
‘I’ve always been secure in my masculinity. I don’t have any. I own (and regularly watch) The Golden Girls on DVD. I’ve no idea what a carberator does (or how to spell it), only recently learned what ‘first down’ means, and think Colin Firth is a fine actor. Maybe it’s no surprise that my career is a distant third in my list of priorities. Maybe the nature of my past employment has made that decision easier for me than other fathers.’
…but, if nothing else, please read Tony Woodlief’s much more better reply:
‘Consider Teddy Roosevelt, the epitome of a man’s man. Accomplished hunter, soldier, and leader of men, if Roosevelt doesn’t qualify for the label “masculine,” then I’m not sure who does. But consider his hundreds of letters to his children, imparting encouragement, admonition, advice, and above all, affection….
But he also once hunted down a mountain lion and stabbed it in the heart with his knife. When I read about men like Roosevelt, I don’t find myself wondering if I have to be less of a man to be more of a father; instead I find myself thinking that I need to work on being more of a man and more of a father.
And after you’ve perused these bits of paternal pondering, take special note of this lovely sentiment, taken verbatimly from TIME:
‘”Basically,” says Rochlen, “masculinity is bad for you.”
So are sugar doughnuts and beer bongs, and men hate to let go of those too.’
Gah-wah?!
My company offers employees two volunteer days each year to work with non-profit organizations. In August, I helped the Omaha chapter of the CCFA with its annual ‘Guts & Glory’ walk. Next Monday, I’ll be helping at the St. Louis Area Food Bank.
Children are welcome, so Ian’s coming along. Last night I explained the food bank, and the disparity between our refrigerator and those of a significant portion of the city’s population. That he can ask Mommy or Daddy for a snack, and we’ll say ‘yes’ or ‘no’, but some parents can only say ‘no’.
He thought for a moment. ‘You know my candy? They can have it, if they want.’
