My little girl asks many questions. At 3 she wants to know why, and how, and what and who. One of her favorite questions is “Who bought this?”
“Who buy that Papa?”
“Who bought that you mean? What Emma?”
“Your truck Papa.”
“Papa bought it.”
“Oh.”
Sometimes its an article of clothing, and other times its something that is a part of everyday life. It is not always random or non important however. Its always something she likes to use, or wants to be a party to that she is asking “Who bought this?”.
I have no clue where she got the question from, and I can’t imagine what in the 3 year old analytical mind she uses my answer could possibly mean to her. Her Nanni, and her Papa and her Mama all answer though.
I got used to it.
There are many things I’ll never get used to when it comes to parenthood. One of those things is the fact that there is a living, breathing, human being walking around my house getting into my video games and leaving toys in my pants that not only looks like me, but is eating all my God Damned food.
I’ll never get used to finding out where Emma most recently decided to put her Tinkerbell stickers. There is one on my laptop I didn’t put there, and another on my copy of Ghost Recon Advanced Warfighter 2 for the Xbox 360. I’ve got another on the side of my 1986 Toyota 4runner, and a new scratch and sniff sticker has recently found its way onto the linoleum.
Sometimes I wake up to the feeling of a little hand scratching my beard, and I realize that Emma has gotten out of her bed, and moved onto mine without ever opening an eyelid (this has led to one bumped head, and a few tumbles onto the floor). Although my habit has become to open one eye, lift an arm, and use it to cover her there is always a moment of shock at the tiny face with half of my face, and half of someone elses.
Another thing, is the enormous depth that children have, even if they do not realize it yet. They might not be able to form the sentence or idea that they have brought forth, but if you pay close attention you’ll be fucking astounded.
I don’t like when Emma reverts back to baby words, so I do a lot of correcting and requesting that she speak to me in full sentences. This has backfired on me, as she now hates it when I don’t respond in full sentences.
One day while she and I were enjoying watching the same episode of The Batman for the second time in a row she looks over at a tall, cylindrical oscillating fan in the corner of my living room. I haven’t noticed that she is looking because I am busy watching The Joker become a Vampire in this episode.
“Papa, who buy that?”
“Hmm”
“Papa”
“Ya.”
“PAPA”
“Mmm Hmm”
“Papa talk to me!”
“Yes Emma what is it?”
“Who buy that Papa?”
I look over and she is pointing at the fan. I didn’t really think about my answer because I remember when Vanessa and I bought it at a Wal-Mart the Summer before Emma was conceived. I didn’t want it, I liked the fan that I had, but it’s a great fan and actually does a good job of keeping the place at cool temp.
“Mama bought it Emma, like a long time ago.”
Emma's face looks confused. She tilts her head to one side and looks at me.
“Did Mama bring it over here?”
I laughed. Emma didn’t pay attention to my laughter, but I let out an amused chuckle as I answered..
“Yeah”
I realized that Emma has no concept of her mother and father being together. She has a Mama who she loves, and a Papa who she loves. She has a woman that I love who she has grown attached to and loves, and that woman has a child whom Emma loves. It has hit me that she will never know the idea of Mama And Papa, but just Mama here, and Papa there.
Emma has two homes, but when she is with me and she says “Papa lets go home now” I find myself asking “Where?” and she always answers “Home Papa to the red house”
My house is red. Vanessa’s is not. Emma associates home as home, and I am to know that she means my home when she is with me, and Vanessa is to know that her house is Emma’s home as well.
I remember my parents fighting. I remember objects thrown and tires slashed. I remember hatred and anger and the knowledge that my father is sleeping in the VW again because my mother kicked him out. I remember leaving Houston for Los Angeles with my father, and the plane trip back to Houston when my father’s pills and alcohol made him too tired to function.
I remember when Ma was hospitalized and Pop had to take care of us for a while. I remember all of it and more.
Emma and her question make me laugh because she’ll never have to know that. She’ll never want to be here or there because its “right” or “better”. She will just be because for whatever reason her mother and father have for not seeing each other at all except for every couple of months (the reasons are unimportant, but they are fact).
It might not be what anyone planned in the beginning but there is comfort that if I do it right, the idea of that will never hurt her like it hurt me for so long.
There are a number of standards we set for ourselves that I have found to be, in all honesty…
Bullshit.
Fuck love.
Fuck hate.
Fuck life.
Fuck death
Fuck me.
Fuck you too.
Fuck the idea that we meet and do a dance and drama and adhere to what was set before us. Some of us were not meant for the happy ending and white picket fence even though that is what our parents had.
Some of us were not meant for the shame and lies we were born into, and deserve better and should have it without the guilt of what we should have been.
It wont hurt Emma because we make it okay to be like this, and we wont hold our decisions over her head. Because the idea of “Woe is me, she doesn’t have her mother on a daily basis” and "I hate being a single parent" will play second to the idea that “Its time to learn and grow” and "I am me. I am special and important and there is no time to be sad when there is a life to live"
Emma has taught me many things in her 3 years on this planet. One of those things is to see what came before, and just keep going. She'll hurt so much when/if she finds out how much her Mother and Father hurt eachother.
She'll hopefully never have to adhere to the thought that she should remember any of it in order to allow her life to reach its destination.
“Who bought that?”
Because I don’t.
Showing posts with label Emma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Emma. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Clever
I don’t know a whole hell of a lot. I’d venture to guess that I know more about the fact that I really don’t know most of what I should be an expert at. The things that I am versed in are far and few between and I’m almost positive (though Im sure I don’t know enough to say that I’m positive about it) that the things I do know are things no one should know at my age.
Twenty Fucking Seven.
Fuck this.
At this point should I really still be stumbles and pratfalls? I’m the father of a child that will be 3 in a month. Should I really be so unsure of what tomorrow has in store?
Jesus H.
I spent the better part of today cleaning my home. It was recently invaded by leeching family members who decided it was better to pay cheap rent (not for me, I’m drowning in bills) then to simply get a cheap apartment. What do I care right? I’m just the twenty something prick who can’t get it together.
It was nice however, because for the first time since I moved in I was able to cook for my daughter. The kitchen cleaned, the living room tidy (but with that slight messiness that comes with an almost 3 year old little woman with the energy of the sun, and the intelligence of a fucking brain surgeon) I served Emma spaghetti.
“Emma, do you want meat balls in your spaghetti?”
“Papa look at this!” ::throws ball::
“Good job honey, please clean that up now”
“Okay Papa”
“Emma do you want this spaghetti with meatballs or the one with mushrooms?”
“I don’t like that one Papa.”
“I understand my love, tell your father which one you want him to cook please”
“I want, I want Meatball Masgetty Papa.”
“You mean Spaghetti? Spa-Get-Eeee?”
“No Papa, listen. MA-SGET-EE.”
“I see.”
Her room is done. My room is done after I spent two weeks or so airing it out, because the smell of lazy bastard took about that long to clear out. Along with half a box of incense, a fan, and some scent-diffusers I managed to make it smell hospitable again.
My next project is Emma’s studio, where we will dedicate the dining room to arts and crafts. I’ll most likely line the walls with butcher paper and paint splatters. We’ll work on getting her an art easel. This is the room where she keeps her drums and her keyboard. Sometimes she drums and sings, or blows into a horn. Other times she just pushes a baby on a stroller.
I’m attempting a number of projects that were left abandoned like a derelict vehicle on the side of the highway out in the high desert. My life is a busted radiator. I was on the fast track to something and all of a sudden the fucking steam blew my hood wide open. The only option I had was to walk.
I still walk. I got lost. A diner off the main road sidetracked me. I got held back by my own fear and self degradation that I didn’t realize that all I needed to do was let my vehicle cool off, call Triple-A, and breath deep.
It’s hard walking alone like that sometimes. One tends to really wonder what the fuck brought them here. I did too much of that and almost hit a point all too familiar.
I almost forgot myself.
I once did that. I gave in to what I thought I needed to do. When things changed I was not ready to roll with the punches and I’ve got one hell of a glass jaw.
This time I managed to bob and weave but I’m against the ropes again. I’m looking for a way out and I’m trying to balance as best I can.
How do I mend a relationship with someone who spent 23 years convincing me I was a joke?
How do I spend almost 27 years of my life believing that they were right?
I’m up late right now. I’ve got a cup of coffee. I’m listening to an old play list that I put together a long time ago. I used to listen to it and hope that my life would be different. The songs reminded me of when Emma was born. They reminded me of the apartment she was born in. They made me feel happy and sad at the same time.
Now they are kind of funny, and they play me into a memory of myself on a pseudo date I was once on. I was incapable of looking my company in the eye. She was talking to me and I felt that she enjoyed my company, but all I could do was think about how damaged I was at that point. All I could do was my best to pretend that I was fine. I was so uncomfortable with myself that I was afraid if I looked her in the eye she would figure me out.
I don’t have that problem any more, but a funny thing happened today.
Emma got into my socket wrenches and drill bits.
I told her to put them back, they are not toys.
She listened.
10 minutes later the door to her room was closed. I opened it to find her look up and shooting her little fists behind her back.
Busted my love, who is so sneaky.
“Emma what do you have in your hands?”
::wide eyed half smile::
“Persephone show Papa what you’ve got”
“Papa I was fixing something”
(Emma has been watching me work on the house all weekend, and I want to smile at her so much but I am doing my best “stern father” impression. I feel for a moment like if I look her in the eye for too long she will see right through me, and know that I am too proud of her to be upset.)
"Emma, you’ve got something that is silver that is mine, so you’ll give that to me and not play with it again, the other thing is okay for you to play with, but I want you to show them to me. I am not upset."
“Here Papa.”
"Thank you Emma. Do it again and you’ll get a time out."
“Okaaaay Papaaaaaa…”
I think it worked. I think she saw me and respected that she was doing something I specifically told her not to do and that is why she hid what she took. I accept that this is how it goes, and I enjoy it, but I wonder if I play my roll as well as I should.
I wonder if one day she’ll think back and realize “Damn, my dad was a mess. Always lost in thought.”
I see through my mother like plastic wrap. I see through my father like the X-ray of a cancerous tumor. I remember when they were sentinels. I remember when they had weight and infallibility.
For now I’ll do my best impression of the man I should be, maybe I can do it long enough to convince Emma that I really am him but something tells me she’s too clever for that little trick.
Twenty Fucking Seven.
Fuck this.
At this point should I really still be stumbles and pratfalls? I’m the father of a child that will be 3 in a month. Should I really be so unsure of what tomorrow has in store?
Jesus H.
I spent the better part of today cleaning my home. It was recently invaded by leeching family members who decided it was better to pay cheap rent (not for me, I’m drowning in bills) then to simply get a cheap apartment. What do I care right? I’m just the twenty something prick who can’t get it together.
It was nice however, because for the first time since I moved in I was able to cook for my daughter. The kitchen cleaned, the living room tidy (but with that slight messiness that comes with an almost 3 year old little woman with the energy of the sun, and the intelligence of a fucking brain surgeon) I served Emma spaghetti.
“Emma, do you want meat balls in your spaghetti?”
“Papa look at this!” ::throws ball::
“Good job honey, please clean that up now”
“Okay Papa”
“Emma do you want this spaghetti with meatballs or the one with mushrooms?”
“I don’t like that one Papa.”
“I understand my love, tell your father which one you want him to cook please”
“I want, I want Meatball Masgetty Papa.”
“You mean Spaghetti? Spa-Get-Eeee?”
“No Papa, listen. MA-SGET-EE.”
“I see.”
Her room is done. My room is done after I spent two weeks or so airing it out, because the smell of lazy bastard took about that long to clear out. Along with half a box of incense, a fan, and some scent-diffusers I managed to make it smell hospitable again.
My next project is Emma’s studio, where we will dedicate the dining room to arts and crafts. I’ll most likely line the walls with butcher paper and paint splatters. We’ll work on getting her an art easel. This is the room where she keeps her drums and her keyboard. Sometimes she drums and sings, or blows into a horn. Other times she just pushes a baby on a stroller.
I’m attempting a number of projects that were left abandoned like a derelict vehicle on the side of the highway out in the high desert. My life is a busted radiator. I was on the fast track to something and all of a sudden the fucking steam blew my hood wide open. The only option I had was to walk.
I still walk. I got lost. A diner off the main road sidetracked me. I got held back by my own fear and self degradation that I didn’t realize that all I needed to do was let my vehicle cool off, call Triple-A, and breath deep.
It’s hard walking alone like that sometimes. One tends to really wonder what the fuck brought them here. I did too much of that and almost hit a point all too familiar.
I almost forgot myself.
I once did that. I gave in to what I thought I needed to do. When things changed I was not ready to roll with the punches and I’ve got one hell of a glass jaw.
This time I managed to bob and weave but I’m against the ropes again. I’m looking for a way out and I’m trying to balance as best I can.
How do I mend a relationship with someone who spent 23 years convincing me I was a joke?
How do I spend almost 27 years of my life believing that they were right?
I’m up late right now. I’ve got a cup of coffee. I’m listening to an old play list that I put together a long time ago. I used to listen to it and hope that my life would be different. The songs reminded me of when Emma was born. They reminded me of the apartment she was born in. They made me feel happy and sad at the same time.
Now they are kind of funny, and they play me into a memory of myself on a pseudo date I was once on. I was incapable of looking my company in the eye. She was talking to me and I felt that she enjoyed my company, but all I could do was think about how damaged I was at that point. All I could do was my best to pretend that I was fine. I was so uncomfortable with myself that I was afraid if I looked her in the eye she would figure me out.
I don’t have that problem any more, but a funny thing happened today.
Emma got into my socket wrenches and drill bits.
I told her to put them back, they are not toys.
She listened.
10 minutes later the door to her room was closed. I opened it to find her look up and shooting her little fists behind her back.
Busted my love, who is so sneaky.
“Emma what do you have in your hands?”
::wide eyed half smile::
“Persephone show Papa what you’ve got”
“Papa I was fixing something”
(Emma has been watching me work on the house all weekend, and I want to smile at her so much but I am doing my best “stern father” impression. I feel for a moment like if I look her in the eye for too long she will see right through me, and know that I am too proud of her to be upset.)
"Emma, you’ve got something that is silver that is mine, so you’ll give that to me and not play with it again, the other thing is okay for you to play with, but I want you to show them to me. I am not upset."
“Here Papa.”
"Thank you Emma. Do it again and you’ll get a time out."
“Okaaaay Papaaaaaa…”
I think it worked. I think she saw me and respected that she was doing something I specifically told her not to do and that is why she hid what she took. I accept that this is how it goes, and I enjoy it, but I wonder if I play my roll as well as I should.
I wonder if one day she’ll think back and realize “Damn, my dad was a mess. Always lost in thought.”
I see through my mother like plastic wrap. I see through my father like the X-ray of a cancerous tumor. I remember when they were sentinels. I remember when they had weight and infallibility.
For now I’ll do my best impression of the man I should be, maybe I can do it long enough to convince Emma that I really am him but something tells me she’s too clever for that little trick.
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