We're all sitting at the dining room table while Juniper eats her dinner, and my wife is reading to me from a story in the paper about a 72-year-old man who learned that he was adopted after being abandoned at 2-days old in a snowy vacant lot during the Hoover administration:
"'Back then, it was either Jane or John Doe,' one nurse said. 'But they chose to name him Jimmy Snowbank.'"
"What are you talking about Jimmy Snowbank?" Juniper asks. These days she's like a cub reporter for the Poughkeepsie Journal with all the who what when where whys.
"Jimmy Snowbank was a baby they found in a snowbank. . .because his mama put him there. . . because she didn't want him I guess. . .maybe she was scared. . .maybe she was too young to take care of a baby. . .it's hard work. . .because they ask a lot of questions."
The next day there's like a thousand feet of snow outside so I dress her up in so many layers if you took a cross section it would look like they signed the magna carta back when we put her underwear on. With an impenetrable polyester exoskeleton in place, the final touch is a pair of pink Dora the Explorer sunglasses that cover half her face. Every time I put them on her she points at Dora and asks "who's that girl?" and I pretend not to hear her. Outside, she has no interest in making snow angels, but delights in making what she calls "butt prints." She orders me to sit down next to her, but I'm only wearing jeans and soon they're so clammy and cold my balls are snuggling up against my appendix for warmth. "Let's play Jimmy Snowbank," she says, and then she goes through some melodramatic pantomime about leaving me in a snowdrift and she's covering me up with snow and telling me to cry. She forgets nothing you tell her, I think, and then I can no longer feel anything below my belly button. Just when I'm sure they're going to find me frozen like Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining with a two-year old wearing sixteen pairs of pants banging a stick against my head and barking at me to cry like Jimmy Snowbank, she tells me she wants to go back inside.
Once there, the feeling returns to my legs, and I sit down at the computer and show her this flickr set. She is so freaked out by seeing Elmo in all those real world situations. "What is Elmo drinking?" she asks. "Beer, probably," I say. "What is Elmo doing there?" "That's what happens when you drink too much. One time I had to sit with your mom in someone's front yard for a couple hours after a party. She looked just like that." I know that one's going to come back at some inappropriate time and get me in trouble. When we get to the shot of Elmo on the toilet Juniper starts hyperventilating. I have to answer at least a hundred questions like why is Elmo pooping and whose bathroom is that and finally what color is Elmo's poop?
To spend all day with a not-quite-three-year old is to regularly find yourself interrogated and trapped in all kinds of existential dead ends. Why does a mother leave a 2-day-old baby in a snowbank? Who is that girl on her sunglasses, really? What color is Elmo's poop? I used to lie like my mom did, but keeping track of all the lies is so exhausting. So now I just hum, and nod my head from side to side. And that worked until yesterday, when she learned to grab my cheeks and say, "Dada you have to talk to me!"
Her room has become a place of menacing noises. In the half-darkness imposed by the security lights outside, I come in and she off-handedly tells me she no longer wants a dog, but a mouse instead. Half an hour later she is still awake, afraid. Now there are mice scurrying around her room. The sky at night is always orange. Even the empty prairies of Detroit are lit by streetlights that have not yet broken or been stripped of their copper wire, a hopeful remnant grid of utilities that belie the existence of any actual neighborhood. Darkness is never her bedtime fear, but always noise. When I ask her about any bad dream, it was inevitably a "loud, loud noise," and when pressed she'll imitate a siren, or a car alarm. Whenever one of us leaves the struggle in her room at bedtime, the chorus starts behind the door, and then the other one goes up a few minutes later to try their luck. This time it might be a demand for one more song, or a tree that is scratching her window. We take turns, like blacksmiths at an anvil, trying to calm her with stories of fairies and pandas, old songs, and long, whispered shhhhhhs while stroking her hair. The whimpering starts again whenever we shift, knowing too well that our every motion is bent towards the door. After an hour or so of this we might get some silence, and then sigh, "She's slept through the night for almost a year," Wood will say. "Why this now?"
"We've grown soft," I'll reply. "Remember how bad it was?"
But then the wailing resumes, and from that fleeting moment of solidarity, all that's left is frustration. And because there is nowhere else left to turn, we turn on each other. When the kid is finally asleep, Wood goes to bed without speaking to me. So I sit alone listening to the same song over and over, too angry to do anything. Sometimes I'm sure I have no idea what I'm doing, no lodestar here in the never-darkness of Detroit. I fear that am fucking her up and failing both of them in ways I cannot even imagine. I am no good. I suddenly crave untethered selfishness. I don't want to be responsible for anyone. I don't want to go back into that room. I don't want to tell another story. I don't want to fight with my wife again tonight. I don't want to end this with some pithy observation that despite all this, parenthood is worth it. Not today. Because even if that is true, sometimes it can be so hard, too. And I need to acknowledge how terrified I am of going through it all again.
"Your daughter just screamed at the governor."
"Where are you?"
"The State Fair. We were sitting there petting a newborn pig and looked up to see the governor standing over us with her entourage. She got in Juniper's face and said, 'Well hi there!' and poked her gubernatorial finger at her cheek and Juniper screamed 'Nooooooooooooooo!'"
"What happened then?"
"The governor laughed uncomfortably and walked over to the baby chicks in the incubator."
"You were disappointed you didn't get a chance to say, 'ello, guv'nuh in your chimneysweep voice, weren't you?"
"Oh very much so."
Today was Juniper's second birthday, and because her mother left for work before she had even woken up, I was prepared to let this be the kind of day where anything Juniper demanded, Juniper would get. I would ask her what she wanted to do, and we would do it. If she wanted to eat her birthday cake for breakfast, she would eat cake. This was my first mistake.
After wiping the chocolate frosting from her lips and forehead, I asked her what she wanted to do, and she answered, "go to zoo; see animals?" We go to the zoo almost every week, and it's one of three possible responses she could have given to that query. I actually prefer the zoo to the other two possibilities--- the playgroup where little white boys beat on her and the exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit where stuffed creatures urinate against a stuffed-animal shantytown (Juniper calls it "Babies Pee-pee!"---I'm sure this is what the artist was going for)---so we went to the zoo.
When we arrived, we quickly realized we were the only people there. I'm serious: there was not another soul at the zoo who was not either getting paid to be there or volunteering their time. I felt like a slave escorting a deified two-year-old Persian queen throughout her own private menagerie on the outskirts of ancient Persepolis. It was as though I'd I rented the entire zoo just for her birthday. Despite temperatures hovering around 17 degrees, it was pretty magical. As with so many things in Detroit, there is a certain post-apocalyptic joy to being the only ones. Juniper watched a zookeeper cram tiny fish down the gullets of penguins, then wandered around the penguinarium by herself like an emperor penguin: staccato steps with becoated arms flapping at her side. We wandered alone through the butterfly house, and another zookeeper allowed her feed mealworms directly to a bold Asian bluebird in the free-flight aviary. Almost all of the animals were out and easy to see in the snow. When the lion roared I told her he was wishing her a happy birthday. When the zebras ran up to where we were standing, I told her they wanted to see the birthday girl. When I told her the polar bear wanted to eat some of her birthday cake, she shouted, "no share birthday cake polar bear!"
The Detroit zoo is an old one. It is landscaped with a grand, quarter-mile-long concourse between the gate and all the worthwhile animals. In warm weather it is pleasant enough to stroll past the fountains and statuary, but even in warm weather that distance means that when your Joey pitches a fit in the kangaroo habitat, you've got a long walk back to your minivan, mate. Today, inside the giraffe house, Juniper decided to throw the worst tantrum I have ever seen from her. I sneaked a look at my cell phone. We had been at the zoo for nearly three hours, and we were at the furthest point possible from the car. She sat on the ground and kicked her feet. She wanted me to hold her. When I held her she wanted her mama. When I told her that her mama was at work, she screamed. Outside, her screaming roused a flock of flamingos huddled together for warmth. The chimpanzees wailed with her from inside the monkey house. Bison and antelope and wolverines ran for cover. The tigers cowered and howled with fear. Juniper's screaming reached a certain pitch optimal for agitating every wild animal for miles. Tonight, with a few hours between me and that tantrum, I can almost marvel at its scale. It was the closest I have ever come to experiencing something like what's described in the book of Revelations.
On one hand, I was glad we were the only patrons at the zoo, because there wasn't anybody there to judge my parenting. But eventually I did get a little scared. She had never screamed so relentlessly before. She had never seemed so immune to all my comforting. I suddenly imagined her appendix bursting inside her, or worse, some other, less-useless organ coming loose from its tubes, splashing blood and bile across her viscera, a source of pain that would cause her to emit such bloodcurdling screams that no animal in any kingdom is available for a convenient simile here: there they all were, with me, aghast at the display, frightened off to hide in their holes from the cold and the din surging from my daughter. None dared compete with a two-year old child.
I ran with her. I held her in my arms like a firefighter bursting from a building collapsing in flames behind him, only less manly (but that's a given: plus, I was singing Happy Birthday). Eventually we found ourselves at the otter house, a building with radiated heat coming from a long sheath of metal slung across the ceiling. She screamed as I unbundled her, setting her layers like matryoshki halves next to us, my tiny 23-lb toddler emerging from her warm winter clothes to climb into my coat and rest her wet cheek against the skin of my neck, still sobbing, and I patted her back and sang her a song and I took off her socks and rubbed her cold, bare feet in my hands and she stopped. I stood and danced with her like I did two years ago when we first brought her home from the hospital, still learning how to show her she was safe with us, that we were warmth and that her silent breathing on our chest was all we wanted from the world. I sat back down and rocked her and wondered what the mystery was. All the cold? All that cake? The fear that a polar bear would eat the rest of it before she could? I felt her breathing on my chest and I knew she wasn't in pain. I felt her fingers fumble with the zipper of my coat, and she swung her head back and she looked up at me and shouted "Name!" This is what she does when she doesn't know the word for something. "Zipper," I said, and she repeated it. "Where'd otter go?" she asked, and I pointed to the creature who had been sleeping in a hollow log this whole time. "Otter wake up!" she exclaimed, and then whimpered a bit while I put her clothes back on her.
She was two now. She showed me with her fingers once they slipped through the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She was just letting me know.
Original comment stream here
"Wonder if she'll sleep in the new car seat," Boobahs said.
"She'll sleep," said Dada. "Let's just hope we can get at least halfway to Detroit before she wakes up."
"What's that? Hour and a half?" Boobahs asked.
"A little less," Dada replied.
Dada strapped me in. I looked at the old guy who was waving at me outside the car. He played pots and pans with me last night. I smiled. This seat is new it faces ahead, so I didn't have to look at birdpoo on the back window the whole time, so the sun don't shine in my eyes and make me cry when they drive away from it. Dada played music, and sang. Boobahs handed me a cracker. Num num.
Dada wanted to take me down the tunnel but he didn't right away; he carried me over to the red dog on the wall and I breathed at it how he likes me to. "Is that a doggie, Junebug?" he asked, and I breathed like a dog again to show him what I knew. I should have been in bed long ago but I was still awake. Where does that tunnel go, I wondered. There was a loud wooshing noise as we got further and further down that tunnel. Boobahs smiled at me and she was wearing the swirly coat even though it wasn't cold. Dada put me down on my feet and I walked up and down the tunnel. We were the last ones. Dada lifted me under the arms. At the end of the tunnel was a room where a hundred people sat close together all facing the same way. We walked past them all and they smiled up at me, some of them made the silly face. Dada kissed me on my head and I didn't holler at all. Boobahs pulled out my toys and they let me sit in my own seat. It didn't smell like home but I liked the wooshing sound. "You gonna breastfeed her now?" asked Dada. "I'll wait till we take off," said Boobahs. I reached out for her and put my arm down her shirt and she and Dada both smiled and looked around to all the other people who were looking the other way. I wasn't crying, but the ground wasn't still, and then I was crying.
"She's awake," said Boobahs. Outside the world went by slow, all brown and empty. Everything was slow and there were other cars going slow alongside us. "How far are we now?"
"Twenty minutes, maybe," said Dada. "Depends on how far away this accident is." I hollered. Boobahs climbed into the backseat with me. I hushed.
"Oh honey, she's soooo sick," says Boobahs. "You can see it in her eyes, they're so red and wet."
Dada turned around to look at me. He smiled at me but I just looked at him. "Yeah," he said. "She looks like a total stoner."
Boobahs showed me the cards and tried to get me to say my words. "The cow goes 'mooooo'" she said. "Crab? Apple? Monkey? Flower? Fish?" I didn't say nothing. Boobahs showed me my doll and I held my doll. "She's falling asleep again," Boobahs told Dada.
"Good," he said back and then I did.
"Baby, why won't you sleep?" Dada said. He bounced me back where the light was on, where the ladies in hats were shoveling ice. Around the corner Boobahs put three little white pillows behind her head and closed her eyes. "I just want to sleep five minutes," she said. "Dada!" I said. None of the people turned around this time. "Dada!" I hollered, and a fat man turned and gave a mean look. Dada patted me on the back and bounced and then he sat back down. "Look Juniper," he said. "Look out the window. Hush now." Dada pointed through the glass and I saw pink and orange and all kinds of lights on the ground. "Sunrise," Dada said. "You see the sunrise?" Pretty soon everything was pointing down and my ears hurted. I didn't want to sleep so I didn't.
"So what did you think of that one?" asked Strange Lady after they strapped me back to the seat. I hollered. Strange Lady sat in the front seat next to Dada and Boobahs sat next to me. She was old like Naanaa; she smelled like wet soap. It was raining. I felt like crying so I did. I cried loud.
"Hush up now Juniper," said Dada.
"Turn left here, tight left," said the strange lady.
"What neighborhood are we going to now?" Dada asked.
"Lafayette Park," said Strange Lady. "So get on the Lodge. Straight through the light, then off to the left." Boobahs put the waa waa up to my lips. I drank some. It was cold. It was good. Outside the car everything was dirty and gray. I was scared and wanted my Boobahs. I didn't want to go into another house. The last one smelled like cats, and waa waa dripped from the ceiling. Dada liked it though.
"That's where Ty Cobb lived." he said. "I'd be afraid of Ty Cobb's ghost. He was one ruthless prick."
"The house next door was a bordello," said Strange Lady. "And not that long ago." Those houses were big and cold. Dada ran his hand along the wood. Boobahs touched the colored windows that looked like sunrise. In one house there was a doggie. Another was full of books. We were going to another house. "There's a great parking spot," Strange Lady said. "Can you parallel park?"
"I can parallel back uphill into a spot with six inches to spare," Dada said. Outside the car it was clean. There were trees. And swings. "Wow, " Dada said. "That infant swing is a tiny Eames shell." His voice was happy.
"Up," I said. "Up!" I wanted Dada to put me in the swing. This place smelled like the park. I reached out for the swings and hollered but Dada kept on walking. We went into a house that was made out of windows. Dada was excited, he was pointing his shiny black box but not at me. The black box flashed again and again.
"I love it," Dada said. "I love absolutely everything about it."
"If you know Mies van der Rohe, you know he believed that less is more," the Strange Lady who smelled like wet soap said. The house was very bright. You could see outside. There were trees. You could see the swings. And a slide. Dada gave me to Boobahs, she held me sideways and sang to me. "You could walk to work," Strange Lady said to her.
"This will be Juniper's room," said Boobahs.
It was loud. It smelled like the backside of a bus. "Why do we always end up in Soho?" Dada asked. "I hate Soho." We crossed a busy street. I smelled food. It was cold there. My cheeks hurt. Dada pointed to a doggie but I didn't see it. I was tired, so I cried. "Hush your bellering and moaning, now Juniper," Dada said, and patted me some, so I hushed like he said. Still I could hear all the loud noises and I did not like them. The shapes and colors changed. There were all kinds of people. "No Dutch, you're gonna embarrass me," Boobahs said. "Come on, just take the picture," Dada said, and stroked my cheek. His finger was cold. He pointed to a lady. She was dark and tall. "Boobies," he said. "Look at the boobies." The lady had lots of boobahs . More boobahs than I had ever seen. Dada lifted me up and let me look at them. They were hard, and cold like a spoon. Boobahs held up the shiny box. "A couple more," said Dada. Boobahs looked back and forth and then looked into the shiny box again. It flashed. She was mad at Dada. "I can't believe you made me do that," Boobahs said. "I can't believe you're teaching her that word." "Boobahs," I said, and reached out my arms to her. I had never seen so many.
I coughed some. "She's sooo sick," Boobahs said. "Her cough makes her sound like some kind of animal."
"Did she puke that time?" asked Dada.
"Not this time," said Boobahs.
Dada turned to look at me. "Her crying makes her cough worse and her cough makes her cry."
I couldn't say nothing so I just whimpered some. I kept tasting something on my lips. "So much snot it's dribbling down off her chin," said Dada. "At least she loves that frosty. It must feel good on her throat." Boobahs held out the spoon with the yum yum on it. It was cold and yum. I tapped my finger on the palm of my other hand.
"You want more Juniper? MORE? She's so sick and full of snot but she still wants more," Boobahs said. It was dark. We had been in the car all day. My tum tum hurt, and I coughed a lot, and I started hollering some. "She's so sick, Dutch," Boobahs said. "There are real tears there."
"Poor Juniper," said Dada, and he turned to look at me. I coughed again and there was a tickle in my throat, and then a gush sound.
"Puking! Puke!" said Boobahs. "Oh crap, she's puking it all up. Get me a rag quick." There was a warm feeling. It smelled like long ago times.
"You poor little sicky," said Dada. "You poor sick little baby." I hollered some when Boobahs tried to touch me with the scratchy thing she ran across my lips and neck. I hollered some more.
"It's all over the backseat. All over her carseat," said Boobahs. "How far are we from my mom's house?" Boobahs asked. She wiped the rag across everywhere. I watched her arms move, watched the rag. I was tired and I wanted to sleep some so I did.
Another tunnel. "Plane!" said Dada. "Pppp," I said. Dada's head almost hit the top when we walked in. Less people in this one. I looked back. A man was achooing right next to me. I looked at him, smiled and said "Hi!" I waved. He didn't say nothing. He didn't even look at me. He just kept achooing. His coat was yellow. He had a hairy face. Dada gave him the mean look. There was a lot of sounds. The wooshing sound again, and coughing.
"She's pensive now, for the first time ever she's real cuddly," said Dada.
"That's because she's sick," said Other Naanaa. "Let's take her to the emergency room."
Dada handed me over to Boobahs and went bye bye and then I hollered at him.
"Let's wait," said Boobahs. "Hopefully she won't puke all over me again tonight. Last night, even after she puked in the car in the middle of the night I woke up with puke all over my chest."
Dada came back and said, "That's nothing. She was sleeping on the couch with me this afternoon and she woke up coughing and gagging; she puked against my head and neck and when I saw the mirror it looked like someone had dumped a quart of large-curd cottage cheese over my face." Other Naanaa stuck her face up to me. She kissed me and made me holler. Then she had the sad look but I kept on hollering. Boobahs looked tired and she picked me up under the arms and put me in Dada's hands. "Hush Juney," he said so I did. I buried my face in him and whimpered some. "It'll be all night like this, with this one," said Dada. "No sleep."
"Are you sure you don't want to trade her in for another one, one that's not broken?" asked Boobahs. Dada laughed like he'd been tickled.
Sunrise. Cough. Cold. Cage. Cry. What room was this? Every time I get to know a place, they take me away. Didn't they know I just wanted to be with them, pressed up to their warmth? Dada was there in bed. He drooled and turned his head the other way, Boobahs opened her eyes to my bellowing, she came and I was coughing and crying. Her hands were soft and warm and she was not wearing a shirt and it was warm where she was in bed. I put my mouth on the num and closed my eyes. She smelled like home.
[with apologies to William Faulkner]
