Issue Index
Full-Time Dads;
The Magazine for Caregiver Fathers
Issue 24
"Oh, camel dung."
That is what my son, Michael, sitting in his high chair years ago, would yell whenever he had finished chowing down on his sumptuous banquets of Zweiback and mashed bananas.
My wife and I had no idea where such a young and apparently normal child could have picked up such a vulgar expression (Had Mr. Rogers done segment on Saudi Arabia?) and wondered whether we would ever be able to take him out to eat in a restaurant or feed him in the presence of his grandparents.
We also laughed a lot each time he said it.
but, it remained a mystery for quite some time. Then, one early December when my wife took him to work and he went from person to person, excitedly wishing everyone "Happy Honka!" in honor of Chanukah, the Jewish Festival of Lights, the mystery was solved.
We realized that, in his typical headlong rush to instantaneously experience every aspect of life, he was simply saving time by compressing the words, "Okay, I'm all done," into what most English-speaking nations consider and expletive.
But, that's the way Mike was, ready at all times to announce to the world at large the language-related discoveries that flashed through his mind. He was always racing into a room, his face flushed with enthusiasm, to scream something like, "To, too and two," or "Pear, pair and pare," or "Pat (what he does to the dog) and Pat (one of his best friends)". He was always teaching me, through usage, the essential meaning of words I had though of matter-of-factly my entire life.
But, as is the case with any form of innovative experimentation, mistakes have occurred from time to time. That's why, when we would toss a football around and I'd be Joe Montana and he'd be Jerry Rice and I'd hit him with a long bomb over the middle, it was the "ozone", not the end zone, where he scored his touchdowns. (And it was his "rare" that he swang when performing his victory dance.)
That's why his favorite author, Ezra Jack Keats, came to be known around our house as "Ezra Jack Heath Bar". That's why, each January, we contemplated the accomplishments and commemorated the birthday of "Martin Luther, the King".
Rainstorms were "pourdowns" and bunches of flowers, "buffets". I don't think he ever went past a group of amateur golfers on the fairways without leaning his head out the window and screaming, "Fort!"
One afternoon, I took Michael with me to a record store so that I could buy George Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue". Back home, as I played the tape on the stereo, I notice he had a confused look on his face, I soon learned the reason. He had fully expected someone like Vanilla Ice or Bel Biv Devoe to emerge from the speakers and belt out the ever-popular "Rap City in Blue".
He was very disappointed.
He was disappointed another time when my daughter, Meghan, decided to prepare an elaborate, home-cooked Italian dinner for my wife and me as an anniversary present. Her plan was to seat us, cook for us, serve us, photograph us and entertain us with a dance she had choreographed herself. That, she was certain, would provide us with a memorable tribute to that special day in the distant past when we had married.
Michael really wanted to help, as well, even though he had already presented us with a lovely matched set of G.I. Joe key chains and a computer-printed card bearing the touching message, "You're awesome, Dudes."
But Meg was intent on having this be a one-child show and, soon, it seemed that our anniversary meal would turn out to resemble a ten-round, championship fight at Caesar's Palace more than anything else.
Finally, we pulled our daughter aside and begged her-did I write "begged"? I meant to write "encouraged".-to create a role for her brother. She deliberated from some time, then led him to the kitchen to fill him in on his duties. He could hardly have been happier when he returned to where we sat and informed us that his sister, having finally seen the light, had consented to hire him. For the remainder of the evening, if we needed anything at all, we could address him as Luigi, the "bustboy".
We were relieved that tensions had abated. We were also relieved that he had not been put in charge of decorations. The last time that had happened, he collected flowers all afternoon, arranged them in the middle of the table and asked, over and over again, how we liked the "centipedes" he had made for the occasion.
On weekday mornings, Michael prepared for school by loading up his "pack-back". Later, when his friends and he wrestled and ran and leapt form the fence that surrounded our yard, his cries of "Geromino" could be heard throughout the neighborhood. In the evenings, he cleaned up after his gang, making sure that everyone's "glitter" found its way into the trash barrel.
One day, he began asking questions about homosexuality, a subject he had apparently heard about during a special seminar he was auditing in the back of the school bus.
Before responding, I asked whether he knew what "homosexual" meant. "Sure," he said, shrugging his shoulders and fixing me with a look that I hoped, one day when he grew into it, would indicate ultimate coolness. "It's sex you have at home."
Well, I got that misconception cleared up right away, and, after our talk and a snack of milk and "pupcakes", he went outside to play. He spent the afternoon sliding around in his "sausage" (saucer) on a "pitch" (patch) of snow in the yard.
And I remember not being the slightest bit concerned that he would be too cold. After all, the temperature was in the mid-40s, Fahrenheit, or about 8 degrees on the "celery" scale.
Copyright 1996 John C. O'Brian
Issue Index
Copyright. All rights reserved.