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On we trot.
Our friends were round. They have a six year old daughter and Phoebe was playing in her bedroom with her. Given the difference in ages they were getting on pretty famously. What Phoebe lacks in language skills she makes up for in enthusiasm and clowning. I came up to check on them and Phoebe was sitting on the bathroom floor with the see-through plastic bucket that we wash the baby in over her head. Her new friend was laughing and Phoebe had a goofy grin of pleasure in herself that I recognised from looking in the mirror just after I've been hilarious. My plans to breed a super comedian may be coming to fruition.
Her comic timing is pretty good. They were playing with one of those sciency balls that's made of pipes and can expand in size. It got thrown in the air and landed on Phoebe's head. It couldn't have hurt, but she left a beat, made a noise like she'd just been dazed and then fell to the floor in a dead faint. I have no idea where she got this gag from, but the execution was professional and the commitment enough that she pretended to be knocked out long enough for me to think, against all reason, that she might have been. What have I created?
Later she called me up to her room. “I've got a present for you daddy,†she said, with real pride. I couldn't work out what it would be. But she pointed behind the door, saying, “Look.†She'd scribbled all over the newly painted blue wall with orange pencil. She looked so pleased and I think thought that I would love this work of art dedicated to me, so I couldn't be too cross. It's possible she'd worked out she'd be in trouble and so was trying to pass it off as a gift so I couldn't be annoyed, but I don't think so. I explained that you aren't allowed to draw on walls and that she should use paper. Not unreasonably she pointed out that there wasn't any paper.
But I did love my present really. I hope it gets to stay up. Firstly, it's behind the door anyway and in a bit of a nook so no one will be bothered by it, but it will be a lovely memory of her self-expression, either as an artist or a transgressor of society's norms (apologies for the tautology). I wouldn't want her to do this everywhere in the house (though suspect that my wishes will not stop that happening), but as much as I had to be sensible and point her in the direction of the rule of law, I loved my present. And why aren't we allowed to draw on walls? It's a stupid rule. Walls are boring. Scribble on them all.
The other night I'd gawped in wonder at the majesty of the Universe as the stars lit up the cold night and I looked at something unknowably huge and saw the distant past. Tonight I held my son in my arms and we stared into each others eyes. His are a dark blue, not unlike the starlit heavens and I found myself just as captivated by this tiny hemisphere before me as the one that had vaulted above me. Just as captivating and breath-taking and unbelievable. And this time I realised I was looking into the future.
On both occasions I was mildly pissed, but you know, it's so good to be in awe of the wonder around us. And I can't do that unless I am two beers in.
