As I mentioned, we come from a long line of muted kinderhoods, years of silence when the other 3-year-olds were taking their first verbal steps towards greatness, we were tentative, or indifferent. Or, as my white grandmother used to say about me, ‘Y’all, he’s just a real patient chi-uhld. He’s just takin’ his precious ti-uhm.’
I’m convinced I was let off the hook because I was a pretty baby. I was blonde and fond of oversized collars and sweater vests, unlike most of the other toddlers who had no sense of fashion, likely because they were breast-fed and hadn’t yet come to appreciate the subtle differences between menthol and low-tar.
Sadly, we caught up, but when you lose those first few years of speech, you spend an entire lifetime never knowing quite what to say in appropriate moments. Sentenced to writing out should-have-saids and tormenting yourself with pointless revisions.
Oh, and scarring your own children, in that ironic loop I like to call the VICIOUS CYCLE GAH DAMMNIT.
“I saw your butt crack.”
“What?”
“When you were fixing the dishwasher. I saw your butt crack.”
FOR THE RECORD, I do NOT have a butt crack in the PLUMBER sense of the word. My opinion of food is, “Meh.” So it’s not like I really have substantial CRACKAGE, less’n you consider that each of us has a crack in the technical sense of the word. And low-cut jeans were just as hip for men two years ago as for women, and really, WHO STANDS THERE AND WATCHES WHEN SOMEONE FIXES A DISHWASHER?!? Obviously, even if you take up the belt an extra notch by poking random holes through the pleather with an ice pick (WE WERE POOR, PEOPLE), there will still be a BIT of ass cleavage.
I mean, it was a little harmless crack (WHERE HAVE I HEARD THAT BEFORE), but it was MY crack. It's one thing to see it on a construction worker, but seeing it on a family member is paramount to abuse.
Of course, I suppose I’m hypocritical for whining about it, since I’m of the opinion that children should be mildly abused so that they'll be more interesting when they grow up, but I didn't really intend on abusing my son. Nevertheless, I HAVE. He's scarred, and not the GOOD kind of scarred, not the SEXY scarred that will get him sympathetic make-out sessions when he’s writing short stories about it in college, and I might as well stop saving for his college, anyway, because what's the point anymore?
Or maybe not.
Last week, Alex came home from her wine convention, and she bought him some tchotchkes which were wholly uninteresting for an 8-year-old, and I thought, THANK GOD HE’S ASLEEP. But she also wrote a letter to him, one that I didn’t notice at first. And the next morning when he woke up, I walked into his bedroom and saw him leaning against his dresser, tracing the handwritten words with his heavy blue eyes, and he was smiling and longing and falling into some previously unknown world where each crossroad bears the street signs for Literacy and Love.
I know that the latest trend is to put all your money on going out with a bang, but I sometimes cannot help but notice that the safe investment has always been and thoroughly remains the simple sigh and whimper.
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