Little Black Daddy Magic
This past weekend, C, myself and Eliza drove to another city to visit C's other two kids. His oldest daughter is 13 and would rather walk around her neighborhood aimlessly with a group of friends than hang out with her old man. On the way back, as we laughed about her general disinterest in us, he said something along the lines of "I just hope I get her back."
I found this odd because when I was 13, I was far less nice to my father. This was a pretty intense time for our family as this was the year my parents split up. My father had been seeing another woman for two years and finally, not long after I started seventh grade, he moved in with her. On Saturday nights, perhaps twice a month, my father would pick me up and take me out to a tortuous, stilted dinner at an expensive restaurant. If I felt charitably towards him, I'd let him take me to the movies afterwards. I took advantage of his desire to make things right with me by choosing movies completely inappropriate for father/daughter bonding. One week it was "Fast Times at Ridgemont High," a movie where every character excluding that Henry Winkler-esque Usher guy has sex. A few weeks later, it was "Porky's", where we watched a burly female gym teacher yank a man's penis through a shower hole. It was awkward watching such denoument along side my father but I loved the chance to see rated R movies I wouldn't have seen otherwise, and I liked knowing he was probably squirming with discomfort.
Before my father left, we'd been going through our own tough time because my father couldn't handle the fact that I was growing up. He'd caught me reading "Forever," an activity I hardly hid since I was certainly old enough to know of such things. Had it not been for Judy Blume, I imagine I'd still think pregnancy could be averted if you refrained from tongue kissing. My father yelled at my mother for allowing me read such "smut." My father wanted me to stay the little girl who jumped into his arms when he got home from work, sat on his lap and watched an entire Indianapolis 500, and hoped to be a professional football player just to impress him, forever. So we needed a break, a chance to regroup and get to know each other as man experiencing mid-life crisis and hostile, angst ridden teen. There were lots of fights, lots of cries of "I hate you," lots of making out slobbishly with unsuitable boys in his sightline. I think about it now and I'm a little pissed at my own behavior. My father made some mistakes, sure, maybe didn't treat my mother so well, yeah, but he didn't deserve some of the stuff I did. I see this now, of course, through the new eyes of a parent, one who's dreading these occurrances and knowing they're all too inevitible.
So compared to me, C's oldest daughter is a spa day. She's nice to him, hugs him, tells him she loves him constantly and runs off with nice, clean-cut girls who look like they were freshly ordered from an Abercrombie and Fitch ad. She likes happy, clean shows like "Gilmore Girls" and "American Idol" despite my desire to expose her to the dark side of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." Naturally, I found the idea that he'd "lost her" amusing. Would he rather his daughter blow off her friends for a chance to play board games then fall asleep during "Saturday Night Live" while her father snored from a nearby chair?
Today my father came to New York to spend some time with me and my daughter. He had not seen her since Christmas and I must confess some unease before his visit. Eliza's currently going through a severe Mommy/Poppy phase that involves high-pitched screaming when anyone other than C or myself scoops her up. She'll smile, flirt, laugh, whatever, just as long as no one else tries to wrap her in their arms. My Mom, wild-haired and bleary eyed following a babysitting stint with Eliza, said, "at least we know she can't be kidnapped." My father, who takes things personally, would not bond with this gorgeous baby who looks like an angel but screams like a demon the minute an outsider touches her all too inviting arm. Add to the mix my father's Wolfgang Jack appearance, all white man's 'fro and thick beard, and I imagined a day full of Eliza's screams and my father's cries of "What's wrong with her? Why does she hate me?"
When my father first walked in, Eliza looked at him curiously but didn't start to cry. He started with the babytalk and her face crinkled into the big-wail pucker but she merely turned to me, and smiled.
"Whoa," my Dad said, spotting the smile. "Happy baby."
"Pretty much," I said.
I took my father to a nearby, baby-friendly restaurant to celebrate his birthday. It was an unseasonably warm day for Early March and we walked down Tenth Avenue, Eliza's eyes tired in her red stroller.
My father must have noticed a street sign and said, "Are we going to the Freezeout?"
"What," I asked, not understanding. Circle Freeze was the name of an ice cream shop near where he lived in Jersey. Was it a chain that I happened to live near? "The Freeze out? Is that an ice cream place?"
"Tenth Avenue Freeze-out," my father said and I forced out an obligatory laugh.
"I didn't know you were aware of that song," I said. Yes, Bruce Springsteen was the source of some father/daughter fights. Guess which one of us liked him and guess which one described his "singing" as "moaning."
We got to the restaurant and were seated in an outdoor garden. Eliza was fussy, I had to keep getting up to rock her gently in the stroller. When that didn't work, I put her on my lap.
"I can take her," my father said.
"No, she'll just start screaming."
When our food came, my wonderfully accommodating little daughter feel asleep in the stroller so my father and I could eat in relative peace. I was so confident Eliza would remain asleep, I ordered dessert. But she woke up. I tried to eat my hot fudge Sundae as quickly as possible but had to stop when the inevitable cold headache occurred. I pressed my head against my hands, my nightly five hours of sleep, the long ride back the previous night, the difficulty in having guests of any sort with a baby, all kicking in. Eliza got nosier and I waited for the restaurant's other patrons to start shooting me the dirty glances I always gave when I was on the other side of that fence. I was about to take her out of the stroller when I realized my father was already beside me.
"Here, I'll take her," he said and before I could stop him he had her up. She was wearing her little red, pink and blue striped sweater, the hood draped over her head I could see her tiny features, set in completely placid lines as my father toted her away from me. As I watched that little face retreat in my father's arms, I felt like I would be the one to cry. He walked her to the glass doors, now thrown open for the warm day and even with the distance I could see her smile. My father turned to the right and was gone. For a moment I felt panic, where did he take her? But I realized I was being ridiculous, even if my father "kidnapped" her, I imagine he'd allow me some kind of visitation schedule.
I turned to my sundae, grateful to eat my dessert knowing my daughter was safely in my father's arms. The same arms that propped me up on the couch then dubbed me "Flopsy" because I'd fall over to the side. The same arms that scooped me up and ran with me to his car on the day I got my foot stuck in the wheel of a bicycle. The same arms that pitched countless baseballs to me in our small backyard while telling me I could play the game if only I practiced enough. The same arms that held a camera and took the only good photos of me on the day of my high school graduation.
How did my father succeed where virtually every family member had failed? Does my daughter like men who wear a lot of denim and look oddly like King Kong? I think it's because my father's never afraid to be goofy. Maybe his jokes stink to me, the adult, but the crossed eyes and giddy voice could be magnets to a child. I loved my Dad, really loved my Dad as a child, I mean no one else could have convinced me that watching the Indy 500 was a great way to spend a Sunday. My Mom kept coming in that day, waiting for the moment I'd get bored and she could take me to a Park. Instead I spent the day alongside my father on the couch, probably only getting up to go the bathroom or get snacks.
After I finished my sundae, Daddy came back in, Eliza's eyes bright, her face calm. The sun burned behind him catching the wiry white strands of his hair but it didn't look a halo, more like the crazy God in Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel painting, you know the one who's touching fingers with Adam. Daddy's are magic, I thought, as he handed my daughter back to me and she smiled. When I was a little girl I believed my father had the power to solve every problem. Get Mr. Duran for fourth grade, my father will call the principal and threaten to camp out in his office if my class assignment wasn't switched. I wanted to learn how to hit a baseball and my father signed up to coach the team so that he could teach me, a kid with no natural athletic ability, to make the all-star team. I believed my daddy was magic, the magic man. And maybe he still is, maybe daddy's are always, to us, their adoring little girls, the Magic Man.
I found this odd because when I was 13, I was far less nice to my father. This was a pretty intense time for our family as this was the year my parents split up. My father had been seeing another woman for two years and finally, not long after I started seventh grade, he moved in with her. On Saturday nights, perhaps twice a month, my father would pick me up and take me out to a tortuous, stilted dinner at an expensive restaurant. If I felt charitably towards him, I'd let him take me to the movies afterwards. I took advantage of his desire to make things right with me by choosing movies completely inappropriate for father/daughter bonding. One week it was "Fast Times at Ridgemont High," a movie where every character excluding that Henry Winkler-esque Usher guy has sex. A few weeks later, it was "Porky's", where we watched a burly female gym teacher yank a man's penis through a shower hole. It was awkward watching such denoument along side my father but I loved the chance to see rated R movies I wouldn't have seen otherwise, and I liked knowing he was probably squirming with discomfort.
Before my father left, we'd been going through our own tough time because my father couldn't handle the fact that I was growing up. He'd caught me reading "Forever," an activity I hardly hid since I was certainly old enough to know of such things. Had it not been for Judy Blume, I imagine I'd still think pregnancy could be averted if you refrained from tongue kissing. My father yelled at my mother for allowing me read such "smut." My father wanted me to stay the little girl who jumped into his arms when he got home from work, sat on his lap and watched an entire Indianapolis 500, and hoped to be a professional football player just to impress him, forever. So we needed a break, a chance to regroup and get to know each other as man experiencing mid-life crisis and hostile, angst ridden teen. There were lots of fights, lots of cries of "I hate you," lots of making out slobbishly with unsuitable boys in his sightline. I think about it now and I'm a little pissed at my own behavior. My father made some mistakes, sure, maybe didn't treat my mother so well, yeah, but he didn't deserve some of the stuff I did. I see this now, of course, through the new eyes of a parent, one who's dreading these occurrances and knowing they're all too inevitible.
So compared to me, C's oldest daughter is a spa day. She's nice to him, hugs him, tells him she loves him constantly and runs off with nice, clean-cut girls who look like they were freshly ordered from an Abercrombie and Fitch ad. She likes happy, clean shows like "Gilmore Girls" and "American Idol" despite my desire to expose her to the dark side of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." Naturally, I found the idea that he'd "lost her" amusing. Would he rather his daughter blow off her friends for a chance to play board games then fall asleep during "Saturday Night Live" while her father snored from a nearby chair?
Today my father came to New York to spend some time with me and my daughter. He had not seen her since Christmas and I must confess some unease before his visit. Eliza's currently going through a severe Mommy/Poppy phase that involves high-pitched screaming when anyone other than C or myself scoops her up. She'll smile, flirt, laugh, whatever, just as long as no one else tries to wrap her in their arms. My Mom, wild-haired and bleary eyed following a babysitting stint with Eliza, said, "at least we know she can't be kidnapped." My father, who takes things personally, would not bond with this gorgeous baby who looks like an angel but screams like a demon the minute an outsider touches her all too inviting arm. Add to the mix my father's Wolfgang Jack appearance, all white man's 'fro and thick beard, and I imagined a day full of Eliza's screams and my father's cries of "What's wrong with her? Why does she hate me?"
When my father first walked in, Eliza looked at him curiously but didn't start to cry. He started with the babytalk and her face crinkled into the big-wail pucker but she merely turned to me, and smiled.
"Whoa," my Dad said, spotting the smile. "Happy baby."
"Pretty much," I said.
I took my father to a nearby, baby-friendly restaurant to celebrate his birthday. It was an unseasonably warm day for Early March and we walked down Tenth Avenue, Eliza's eyes tired in her red stroller.
My father must have noticed a street sign and said, "Are we going to the Freezeout?"
"What," I asked, not understanding. Circle Freeze was the name of an ice cream shop near where he lived in Jersey. Was it a chain that I happened to live near? "The Freeze out? Is that an ice cream place?"
"Tenth Avenue Freeze-out," my father said and I forced out an obligatory laugh.
"I didn't know you were aware of that song," I said. Yes, Bruce Springsteen was the source of some father/daughter fights. Guess which one of us liked him and guess which one described his "singing" as "moaning."
We got to the restaurant and were seated in an outdoor garden. Eliza was fussy, I had to keep getting up to rock her gently in the stroller. When that didn't work, I put her on my lap.
"I can take her," my father said.
"No, she'll just start screaming."
When our food came, my wonderfully accommodating little daughter feel asleep in the stroller so my father and I could eat in relative peace. I was so confident Eliza would remain asleep, I ordered dessert. But she woke up. I tried to eat my hot fudge Sundae as quickly as possible but had to stop when the inevitable cold headache occurred. I pressed my head against my hands, my nightly five hours of sleep, the long ride back the previous night, the difficulty in having guests of any sort with a baby, all kicking in. Eliza got nosier and I waited for the restaurant's other patrons to start shooting me the dirty glances I always gave when I was on the other side of that fence. I was about to take her out of the stroller when I realized my father was already beside me.
"Here, I'll take her," he said and before I could stop him he had her up. She was wearing her little red, pink and blue striped sweater, the hood draped over her head I could see her tiny features, set in completely placid lines as my father toted her away from me. As I watched that little face retreat in my father's arms, I felt like I would be the one to cry. He walked her to the glass doors, now thrown open for the warm day and even with the distance I could see her smile. My father turned to the right and was gone. For a moment I felt panic, where did he take her? But I realized I was being ridiculous, even if my father "kidnapped" her, I imagine he'd allow me some kind of visitation schedule.
I turned to my sundae, grateful to eat my dessert knowing my daughter was safely in my father's arms. The same arms that propped me up on the couch then dubbed me "Flopsy" because I'd fall over to the side. The same arms that scooped me up and ran with me to his car on the day I got my foot stuck in the wheel of a bicycle. The same arms that pitched countless baseballs to me in our small backyard while telling me I could play the game if only I practiced enough. The same arms that held a camera and took the only good photos of me on the day of my high school graduation.
How did my father succeed where virtually every family member had failed? Does my daughter like men who wear a lot of denim and look oddly like King Kong? I think it's because my father's never afraid to be goofy. Maybe his jokes stink to me, the adult, but the crossed eyes and giddy voice could be magnets to a child. I loved my Dad, really loved my Dad as a child, I mean no one else could have convinced me that watching the Indy 500 was a great way to spend a Sunday. My Mom kept coming in that day, waiting for the moment I'd get bored and she could take me to a Park. Instead I spent the day alongside my father on the couch, probably only getting up to go the bathroom or get snacks.
After I finished my sundae, Daddy came back in, Eliza's eyes bright, her face calm. The sun burned behind him catching the wiry white strands of his hair but it didn't look a halo, more like the crazy God in Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel painting, you know the one who's touching fingers with Adam. Daddy's are magic, I thought, as he handed my daughter back to me and she smiled. When I was a little girl I believed my father had the power to solve every problem. Get Mr. Duran for fourth grade, my father will call the principal and threaten to camp out in his office if my class assignment wasn't switched. I wanted to learn how to hit a baseball and my father signed up to coach the team so that he could teach me, a kid with no natural athletic ability, to make the all-star team. I believed my daddy was magic, the magic man. And maybe he still is, maybe daddy's are always, to us, their adoring little girls, the Magic Man.
posted by Litgirl Mama at 7:20 PM
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