When I was getting close to home today, I realized that I was a bit early, that we had a sitter until six. And so, instead of driving home right away, I circled the block for fifteen minutes or so, listening to August and Everything After, feathered by the moonlight. I thought of movies I'd seen where people drive around the block for a while, trying to ward off if just for a moment, the responsibility of any given day. I didn't know if I should feel guilty or not. If I was to interpret some deep meaning of this quiet circling of the block.
When I got home I sat down on the floor and read her a book. She told me that the animal with the long neck was a giraffe. She looked at a picture of a tiger and gave off a growl that she's somehow taught herself, a tiger's growl that's so good that it nearly matches my own adult's growl. Halfway through the book she climbed up on the couch and stood behind me. She wrapped her arms around my neck and said, "Duderoom, duderoom, duderoom, dooom, doom" approximating the galloping of a horse. I stood up and we galloped around the house, swinging round the table, pausing briefly at the mirror to admire her smiling face, her laughing eyes, her wild hair. When we reached the couch I dropped her. She sat up and said and signed "more."
"Daddy's tired," I told her. "Bring me a book."
She pulled out blueberries for Sal and carried it to the middle of the room. "Sit," she said, and so I moved from the couch to the carpet, and we curled up together to read a book about picking blueberries on a mountain.
Her sitter told me that they'd went into the backyard earlier in the day and picked the blueberries from our small bushes. I know that she understood the symmetry of closing the day with "Blueberries for Sal" that she understand narrative movement, closure, and continuity, I imagined that one day she'd understand herself, why I drove around the block for fifteen extra minutes today listening to songs from my own youth like the frayed rope spun round an oak to hold up a tire, yellowed in the yellow light of summer's past.
When I got home I sat down on the floor and read her a book. She told me that the animal with the long neck was a giraffe. She looked at a picture of a tiger and gave off a growl that she's somehow taught herself, a tiger's growl that's so good that it nearly matches my own adult's growl. Halfway through the book she climbed up on the couch and stood behind me. She wrapped her arms around my neck and said, "Duderoom, duderoom, duderoom, dooom, doom" approximating the galloping of a horse. I stood up and we galloped around the house, swinging round the table, pausing briefly at the mirror to admire her smiling face, her laughing eyes, her wild hair. When we reached the couch I dropped her. She sat up and said and signed "more."
"Daddy's tired," I told her. "Bring me a book."
She pulled out blueberries for Sal and carried it to the middle of the room. "Sit," she said, and so I moved from the couch to the carpet, and we curled up together to read a book about picking blueberries on a mountain.
Her sitter told me that they'd went into the backyard earlier in the day and picked the blueberries from our small bushes. I know that she understood the symmetry of closing the day with "Blueberries for Sal" that she understand narrative movement, closure, and continuity, I imagined that one day she'd understand herself, why I drove around the block for fifteen extra minutes today listening to songs from my own youth like the frayed rope spun round an oak to hold up a tire, yellowed in the yellow light of summer's past.
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ReplyDeletethank you for putting life and parenthood in
ReplyDeleteperspective..we all need to drive around the block more often just to appreciate our surroundings, who we are, who we were,and take a deep breath..
and how much more present were you with her in that moment...love...
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