Skip to main content

Joshua and His Grandpa

One thing I hadn't fully expected was the love affair between my father and my infant son.

Joshua is a charmer; he loves everyone. But my father is more reserved. That's why it's a surprise--repeatedly--to hear my father's audible gasp when Josh pops up on the FaceTime screen.

Then it's as if everyone but Joshua disappears. As various adults chat and chat about, say, Linda Ronstadt's current health, or the drama surrounding a night nurse, my father fixates on his grandson. Sometimes, he forgets to pretend that he knows an adult conversation is occurring, and he begins making a shrill whistle sound, to get Joshua's attention.

At other times, my father's dry humor comes out. I notice this right away; I'm not sure everyone sees it.

My father, on his grandson's upcoming visit to Buffalo: "I'm making arrangements for the Mandarin tutor....."

My father, on whether he will part with Joshua after the Buffalo visit: "That's actually Joshua's decision. We'll see how he feels after he tries a chicken wing."

Listening to my dad, I recall how he would tuck me in each night, in my own early childhood. I had a beat-up Mickey Mouse doll, and my dad would say, "Ready to see Mickey?" This seemed like genius to me, because it was the politics of euphemism: It put the focus not on the unpleasant reality of having to go to sleep, but instead on the party I could have with my Mickey doll.

My dad thinks chatting with your baby is important, so I tell Joshua about how to make panko-crusted chicken, how to soothe a beleaguered repairman, how to choose a Christmas present for the neighbor. These count as my skills--such as they are.

Often, weirdly, the kid seems to listen.

And that's what is happening at 16 Walnut.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...