danny, the champion of the world

We gave Mia her choice of day camps this summer and she chose the one with the nature walks, naturally. It was also the one with the horseback riding, the daily swimming, and the bus ride, all of them selling points, but none quite as selly as the nature walks. The girl, she likes her some nature.

What she doesn’t like is talking, or at least not talking about what I want her to talk about. Mom says it’s my comeuppance – I get as much information out of my daughter as my parents have always gotten from me – and I suppose she’s right. I never told them much – still don’t – and not because I don’t trust them enough to confide in them. It’s more because I’m not much of a confider. Never have been. Some things – many things – I just keep for myself. It’s just tidier that way.

Now, though – now, when Mia’s started camp and she’s coming home sun-bleached and exhausted and full of experiences, I want to know everything, and for three days this week I peppered her with questions – Did you learn any songs? What are your friends’ names? How was the horseback riding? Did you climb the rock wall? What about the nature walk? How was the nature walk? What did you see?. And for three days, she evaded me with short, vague answers – No, I don’t know, Good. Yes. Fine. The skull of a dead horse. Here and there, she gave me small details – her group’s cheer, or a new song, or the fact that she and some other kids played tackle-the-counselor in the pool. But the details were small indeed, and they came out only when I wasn’t expecting them.

Finally, last night, with another round of questions and neglected plate of rotini on the table in front of her, she covered her face and blurted, “I just want it to be my own thing.”

And I can relate.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Tomorrow: Seattle. 

Night before last. Max is in bed. I’m reading a story, and something green and fantastic emerges from his nose. I grab it – because parenting is super glamorous and I am its most glamorous practitioner – and walk to the bathroom to put it into a tissue and wash my hands. Max gets angry to the point of tears. He wanted me to put it on his hand so that he could put it on the tissue.

I bet you’ve never had that argument. I bet that’s a brand-new argument.

Mia and Max staged a knock-knock marathon, with Max the clear endurance champion. Long after Mia had moved on to other pursuits, the boy was still knocking on doors, seeing who would answer.

“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Boo.”
“Boo who?”
“Don’t cry!”

“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Ach.”
“Ach who?”
“Don’t sneeze – I mean, God bless you!”

***

Kind of a false start on the punchline there, but that’s fine. He’s three. And he’s working on it, honing his craft, which is what you have to do.

In high school, I fancied myself something of a comedy man. I watched a lot of the stuff, recorded stand-up specials and dissected them, figuring out whole categories and sub-categories of comedians – the joke guys beat the one-liner guys, but the story guys beat them both (see: Pryor, Richard). For a while, I thought that might be the thing for me, that it might be what I wanted to do for a living.

Not comedy. Discovering comedians. I thought that the raddest job on the planet would be to be Johnny Carson’s booker.

Nerd, right? I know. Big time.

***

“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”

[Edited for space.]

“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“I’m glad I didn’t say banana!”

***

They don’t always line up, obviously. He has a whole series of them that are complete nonsense, but they just knock him out. I’m trying to appreciate them, but mostly I just appreciate the laughter. Is this what it was like the first time I tried to make my mom watch The Simpsons with me? When I sat there and giggled, and she just smiled said something about how she could see that they were funny to me. Is it like that?

“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Penguin.”
“Penguin who?”
“Penguin judge!”

“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Orange.”
“Orange who?”
“Orange judge!”

“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Banana.”
“Banana who?”
“Banana judge!”

***

Later, after the lights are out and he’s 20 minutes past time to calm his body, he calls me back into his room. “Daddy!“

“What is it, Max?”
“Knock knock.”
“Max, it’s time to sleep.”
“Daddy, knock knock.”
“Okay, one more and that’s it.”
“Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“I’m glad I didn’t say banana!”

I kiss him on the nose. “Good night, Max.”

“The banana ones are the funniest!” he says, and he’s still laughing.

• I’m just doing a pizza dance.
• I’m just standing up to hug you.
• I’m just doing a lunch dance.
• I’m just standing up to kiss you.
• I’m just doing a Chinese dance.
• No, I was just gonna hug you.
• I’m just holding my penis.

We were driving to school – first Max today, because we had to stop by and get grapes for Mia’s Kinderclub party. I was thanking the kids for my Father’s Day – it had been lunch in Malibu with my parents, then Kung Fu Panda, then Chinese food at Lakeview Gardens to stay with a theme. And there was a fabulous card, too, for which I was grateful – “Thank you guys,” I said. “Thank you for the beautiful card you gave me.”

To which Max snorted, “Car? We didn’t give you a car.”

“No no,” I said. “Not car. Card.”

Mia stepped in. “You said car. You said we gave you a car.”

“No, well, I didn’t say that, but anyway, if that’s what you heard, that’s not what I meant to say. I was thanking you for the card you gave me.”

By now, Max was incredulous. “Why would we give you a car? You already have a car.”

Then Mia: “Car-duh,” she spat. “Car-duh. Not car. Daddy, we didn’t give you a car, we gave you a card. Car-duh.”

I gave up. “Okay, sorry,” I said. “Card. You’re right. You didn’t give me a car, you gave me a card. I had that wrong. I don’t know what I was thinking. Sorry about that. But thank you for the card. Car-duh. Card.”

That seemed to settle things. The backseat got quiet for about a minute. And then, from Max’s seat, very quietly: “Why would we give you a car? Pssh.”

Well, I know what I’m not getting for my birthday.

She keeps a journal. It’s in one of those old composition notebooks, the ones with the black and white mottled covers. Sometimes she lets me read it, sometimes she doesn’t, and I always respect her feelings on that. Kills me to do it, because all I want to know in this world is what’s going on in that little head of hers, but I do it all the same. I have to.

Sometimes it’s about what she did over the weekend. More often, it’s about what stickers or books or toys her grandparents bought her. And then there’s this one:

I love my dad.

I love my dad

becus he has no

joob and wen he

has no joob then

he sumtimes can

pic me up from

scool urly.

***

Sunday is Father’s Day – my sixth, incredibly. Each is better than the last, because each day the kids get more magnificent. Couple weeks ago they held a debate on the question of robot poop – Max says they poop cannonballs, but Mia says it’s more like screws and bolts. I think it depends on the robot’s diet. The jury’s out. And Saturday, Max drew a frog and named it Snort, and this is how he explained the name to his sister:

“My frog’s name is snort because he snorted one of his boogers into the ocean. He had a booger that was really good, and he snorted it, and it fell into the water.”

And in fact, there’s a really good booger in the water. See for yourself.

***

Mia learned to tie her shoes this week.

Max ate a 64-ounce clamshell of blueberries watching Caillou.

Max still comes into our bed at night, but not every night.

Max is uncommonly polite. He uses please and thank you like they were Skittles. He also farts a lot, and this makes him laugh. A lot.

Mia’s favorite food is Skittles. I have never given her Skittles.

Max doesn’t like pizza. It has sauce, and he doesn’t like sauce. He also doesn’t like ketchup, or white sauce, or spaghetti with red sauce. The only sauce Max likes is syrup.

And Fig Newtons. Which he described to me as “the thing with the sauce with the bread around it.” He likes Fig Newtons.

Mia and Max only eat the heads off broccoli.

Mia read a whole book in bed tonight. She called me in to tell me about it. Her smile kept the room lit even after I made her turn out the light.

Max is coming around on shorts.

Every night before bath, Max chooses a plastic animal or dinosaur to bring into the tub. And every night, he asks me if that particular animal or dinosaur swims, and if it swims underwater too. Every night, I say yes to both questions.

Max draws dogs. He draws cats. He draws bunnies. He draws mice. Yesterday, he drew a dog chasing a cat. Chasing a bunny. Chasing…no, not a mouse. A ball of yarn. The ball of yarn was chasing the mouse. The mouse was chasing an ant.

Mia refuses to tell me about her day. It’s because it’s her day, not my day. That’s what she told me.

Max still gets tired of walking. I get tired of carrying him.

***

And then there’s this: I got a joob. I’ve been working at it for five months, and right now I’m thrilled, but I’m not.

I’ve not gone to work for five years. I’ve worked, but I’ve not gone to work. I’ve written. And though this job is insanely close to home – close enough that I’ll commute on foot – it’s not at home, which means I can’t watch kids and still work. Which brings with it all sorts of complications involving daycare and after-school care and babysitters and juggling and I don’t know what else. I don’t know. We’ll figure it out soon, though. We’ll have to. I start next month.

It’s good. I’m happy. This is what I’ve been working toward. And it’s as close to a perfect situation as I could have imagined. It’s just.

Well. I like picking her up urly.