Early Morning
“Dad?”
“Hmph?”
“Um. Dad?”
“Umph.”
(A little louder) “Dad? Um. Are you…Um. Dad? Are you awake?”
“Hmph. Ah, kind of.”
“Oh. Um. Dad?”
One eye slightly opens. Other one still swollen shut. “What time is it, son?”
“I don’t know. I’ll go check.”
Feet patter. Silence. Eye closes. Return to dream about thong factory.
“Dad?”
“Dad?”
“Hmph?”
“Dad? Are you still asleep?”
“I don’t know. Why are you up so early?”
“Is it early?”
“Well it’s still pretty dark out.”
“Oh. Um. Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Is it OK to write a note to someone to tell them something if they’re not there?”
Pause.
“What?”
“Is it OK to write a note to someone to tell them something if they’re not there?”
It’s not that I’m not thinking clearly. It’s that I don’t want to think at all. I don’t want to get conscious, really.
“Um, yea. It’s OK to write a note. Isn’t there anything on TV right now that you’d like to watch?”
“Cartoons don’t start til 5:30.”
“What time did you say it was?”
“I’ll go check!”
“No! Don’t go che……..” Too late. Feet patter again. Sound of chair being dragged across the kitchen floor. Sounds like an Uzi at this hour. Note to self: get vasectomy checked. Sound of chair being dragged back. Feet patter again.
“It’s 0-1-5.”
“0-1-5?”
“Yea. The clock says 0-1-5.”
“You mean 5:10!!?”
“I’ll go check!”
“No! Don’t go che…………..” Too late again. Feet patter again. Sound of full body slam on linoleum. Silence. Pause. Sound of chair being dragged again. Grunting noises. Chair gets dragged back. Whole house kind of shakes a little. Feet patter coming back. Moving pretty quickly now. Enthusiastic return ends with a fist to the groin. His fist, my groin. NOW my eyes are open.
“Hey, easy Tiger. Remind me to have that anatomy discussion with you later. So. What did you find?”
“What?”
“What did the clock say?”
“The clock?”
Oh lord.
“Yes. What time is it?”
“I’ll go che…..” I was ready this time. I’m a slow learner but not that slow. I gently grab an arm.
“No, that’s OK sport. I don’t really need to know what time it is.”
“Um. Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Um. You’re hurting my arm.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, honey.” I relax the choke hold. You big brute. You should be ashamed of yourself. It’s still dark out, I’m a child abuser, and the thong factory is just a fuzzy memory.
“Are you OK, honey? I’m so sorry. I squeezed too hard.”
“That’s OK, dad. Um. Dad?”
“Yes, son?”
Um. Um. Um. Dad?”
Patience.
“Um. Dad? Is it OK to write a note to someone to tell them something if they’re not there?”
“Well, yes. I guess so.”
Now congratulating myself on educating my little one -communication is so important.
“OK. Bye!” Feet patter and he’s gone.
‘OK. Bye?’ That’s it? I got wrenched out of a good sleep to get to ‘OK. Bye?’ Times like this that I think of my great grand father, who had eleven kids, and the story of the time he went to the store to get a loaf of bread and never came back. Ever. I think they call it empathy.
Uh Oh. Feet patter again.
“Dad?”
“Yes?” “About the note. You sure it’s OK to write a note to someone to tell them something if they’re not there?”
‘Well, yes, son. It’s OK to write a note.” Pause. “Um. Dad?” “Yes?” “How do you spell ‘on fire’?”