“what are you trying to say?”

I’m running out of delicate and diplomatic ways to excuse my mini-George Carlin. When London discovered we all have nipples, he mispronounced the word, replacing the n with a h. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it was because it sounded like hippos, an animal that looks like a waddling scrotum with teeth. After his mammilla discovery, London would be riding shotgun in a shopping cart, point at any woman B cup or larger and say, “Look at those hipples, dad!” or “You like those hipples, dad? I like them!” or “Those hipples are sooo big.” I would be lying if I said that a few women didn’t look at my ring finger after London’s bad pickup line. I guess there’s something to be learned from such honesty and directness. The majority, however, did not enjoy such papillan scrutiny in the produce section at Albertson’s.

“dance for grandma”

I looked over at my daughter who sat on the arm of the couch mouthing the words to an AC/DC song, her fist up in solidarity with the fictional characters on screen.

What happened with Poppy is that before she was London’s age, it was clear that she had theatrical aspirations. Maybe it was my fault. When she was still confined to her crib, I decided to give her a musical education, albeit a limited one at best. Lala would be away all day at the flea market selling her shrineboxes to Texans who needed to assuage their capitalist guilt with something spiritual yet small enough to fit into an alligator purse. I’d grab a stack of CDs and play them loudly on the boombox usually reserved for lullabies at bedtime. I’d hold Poppy’s hands in mine and we’d dance maniacally to artists that may have influenced her in a certain direction. Looking back, perhaps I should have chosen Mozart instead of Public Enemy or substituted Raffi for The Ramones, but as Dylan said, it’s all over now, Baby Blue.

“mister mom”

I grabbed her arm and yanked her from her grainy drum tower then gathered up the three remaining small people in an aggressive game of tag starring me. I bobbed and weaved around the reluctant participants like a drunken Pied Piper as Rachel and her mother-in-law looked over in bemusement. I sang, danced, told jokes, did impressions of forgotten television celebrities like Rodney Allen Rippy and Mason Reese. I swung all kids for equal amounts of time (under their arms to avoid dreaded nursemaid’s elbow). A few other tots joined us, wanting to know what the crazy camp counselor was smoking and could they buy some? I shoved the rookies into the conga line and ordered them to smile and march by the blanket with the bronzing woman wearing Bono’s sun spectacles.

“we’ve got a runner”

In front of us, a family of three huddled around their fourth, a boy about five years old, who was tethered to a nylon harness that engulfed his upper torso. Once we all realized we had a real live leashkid within touching distance, we couldn’t take our eyes off him. Leashkid pulled hard on his halter, running in circles trying to tangle up his father. The dad/owner had experience with such tether trickery, sidestepping each pass with the ease of a double dutch expert. Leashkid then snapped at hatless Santa who was busy providing lapness for a toothless girl with pigtails.

“He’s like Stitch,” London said, pointing at little harnessed Harry. Stitch is the alien with ADHD who stars in a cartoon set in Hawaii, a place where, at least on this show, seems to allow the odd and unusual treatment of small creatures.

The line moved and it was then leashfamily’s laptime. The dad unbuckled the shoulder and chest restraints while the mother held leashkid’s shoulders. Dad, holding up one finger, scurried over to the photographer. You didn’t need to be Dr. Phil to figure out that he was saying that they only had one chance to get this photo right. Sister of leashkid sat on one thigh while her brother took the other; they both smiled, the flash went off and so did the kid, sprinting off Santa’s shelf onto the Astroturf below. If the North Pole didn’t have a gate, the junior escapee would have been well past Men’s Wear at JC Penney by the time the hyperventilating father caught him.

“for the children”

It’s still hot in New Mexico in early September and the air was thick with odors of seventeen types of animal dung, greasepaint, and parents like me sweating in costumes made of wool and thick cotton. Poppy was lounging in her bucket seat, watching the pink pit bulls growl at the llamas with dreadlocks from Taos, all under the atonal tent of the under-funded Ortiz Middle School marching band. Even though my costume registered ten notches hotter than the 80-degree air temperature, I stood tall and proud, my painted overbite stretching into a smile. Damn, I was a dedicated dad.

A whistle blew, we started moving and the honeymoon ended. The handle of Poppy’s car curved lower than I remembered so I had to stoop to push the bloody thing. The parade snaked for two miles along the main streets of downtown Santa Fe. The slippers from Wal-Mart were void of arches and offered no protection from the ever-warming blacktop. It was as if I was walking on two slices on Wonderbread. Within a block, my feet burned and my back throbbed. Landmines in the form of animal crap started to appear every ten feet or so. I’m no animal husbandry expert but once we started walking, all of God’s creatures felt the urge to let loose feces reminiscent of Jackson Pollock’s paintings. Poppy and I had stumbled onto a slalom course, only instead of poles or gates, mounds of guano marked our trail.

copyright 2005 Rob Wilder