One reason I originally started Silflay Hraka was in order to use it as a memory aid. I forget things, lots of things. The sainted wife asked me the other day what I remembered about the night Ngnat was born. As it turned out, not much. I do remember telling the wife at one point that she was pushing incorrectly, which was pretty arrogant of me, in retrospect, and thinking “Damn, that head just keeps getting bigger and bigger!” as the almost-born Ngnat was extruded into the world. I cut the cord, I think, and called relatives, leaving a message on her sister’s machine that she was an aunt, but disclosing no other details, because I thought that would prove amusing. And amusing it was, though only to me, as it turned out. I also remembered Ngnat falling asleep on me as I stretched out on the couch in the delivery room, a memory that the wife pointed out was incorrect.
“That was the next night, dumbass.”
I made a pact with myself at the beginning to write down the details of life that would otherwise grow fuzzy and fade with time, a pact that I almost immediately broke, and continue to do so to this day.
Take this post, for instance, the one in which I first come up with Ngnat’s pseudonym. It’s only the first half of what I was originally going to post. I didn’t finish it because I thought that not only does it end at a pretty good stopping point, were I to keep on with the story I would have to write about the actual visit to Target, and the horrible attack of diarrhea that took me into its cramped and painful clutch.
I cheerily told the wife that I would be back in a minute or two.
“I’m a little rumbly in my tumbly.” (We’d been watching a lot of Pooh on the dvd player at the time.) That cutesyness must have annoyed whatever gods* are in charge of these matters immensely, as about 10 seconds later rumbly in the tumbly turned into Popocatepetly in the belly–an image which, now that I’ve spent some time at Google, is weirdly descriptive, if you look at it a certain way.
Had my clenched cheek waddle been three feet longer than it was, I would have taken the lead in the “Shit Your Pants Challenge” that Woundwort and friends have been running informally for the last 6 years.
Aside: Previous leaders of the SYPC include a guy who lost control on the 18th green of a tony country club, and another friend who decorated the master bed while sleeping, awaking only after being shaken out of unconsciousness by his preternaturally calm wife. He was later disqualified for actually being ill at the time.
There I was, at rest in the modestly appointed Target men’s room, thinking.
Goddammit, this never happens to Lileks. Maybe I can just leave it out. Thank God the wife’s here. What the hell would I do if she wasn’t? What would Lileks do? WWLD? Oooooooh…..that’s catchy and snarky! I’ll embroider it onto bracelets, and sell them to bloggers! I’ll be able to retire! I can…where’s the toilet paper? Fuckity fuckity fuckity dammit!
I end up censoring myself, which defeats the entire purpose of the blog as a memory aid. I’ve avoided writing about Ngnat’s morning routine because to me it seems….well you look at it first.
Ngnat wakes up around 7:30 most mornings. Occasionally it will be earlier, and I’ll be in the shower when I hear giggling and a “Hi Daddee!” from the the other side of the glass door. On those mornings, I try to distract her with chores while I rinse off.
“Taylor, can you go flush the potty? Thank you! Now can you get Daddy a towel? Thank you! Put it on the floor! Ok, go take off your pull-ups!”
And while she rushes off to dispose of her Pampers, I hurriedly towel off, and put on boxers. Cartoon boxers. It’s all I own. I don’t know why. I didn’t set out to become the type of man who only wears underwear imprinted with animated characters, but somehow I ended up as him. By the time I have a pair on she’s back in the room.
“Bart!” she says, pointing. Or “Pumbob!” or “Cooby-coo!”
Then we go downstairs to sit on her potty (she sits, not I). I sing to her on the way down the stairs.
“Good morning, good morning, good morning!
Good morning, good morning, good morning!
Good morning, good morning, good morning!
Good morning, good morning to you!
I love you! I love you! I love you!
I love you! I love you! I love you!
I love you! I love you! I love you!
IIIIIIIIIII love you, good morning to you!”
Some days she catches me in the shower, and we sing the song on the stairs. Some days I sit on the edge of her bed and sing the song until she wakes up. But I always sing the song.
I hesitated to write it down because it feels like a deadly mixture of too much information crossed with a sweetness strong enough to cause diabetes. But I don’t want to forget it, and I’m afraid I might, otherwise. So you’ll just have to deal with it on occasion. And I’ll keep asking myself, WWLD?
*So, if there is a god or gods who hold all matters anal in their hands, what are their names? E-mail them to me or leave them in the comments, and I’ll post a list later on.
