Lesbian Dad

3,472 in a series


I could have also entitled this “Baba’s mood is…” since the image captures that pretty nicely, too. Okay it’s a bit understated. It’s more like this other picture, by his sister.  But I don’t want to impose my interpretive vision on that of the artist.

He was having a perfectly fine time with the paper, but of course eventually he ran out of it (either the paper itself or the fine time with it, who can say) at a point in the day when I was all tangled up in the dreary, inexplicable travails of adulthood.  Well, they’re explicable to us, but to them? Nope. Our grown-up stresses remain as distant and confusing to them as the global economy will always remain to me.  And as relevant.  Meaning, plenty.

Either way, as per usual, as per the wall-to-wall stress that painted the insides of our home throughout the Prop 8 battle last year, all he sees is its impact on me, never its source.  For good reason, but still.  I’m Faust, muttering to a Mephistopheles that he’ll never see.

So what did he do?  He did what any self-respecting 2.75 year old would do.  After multiple times trying to get my attention (was I on the phone? hunched over the computer? pacing the room in a reverie of self-importance?), after the umpity-umpth unanswered “Babaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” he made a nice facsimile of this image. On the arm of the couch. In permanent marker. For posterity.

Every time I peep that little image I hope I take in a deep breath, say “There, there” to myself and everyone around me, and thank the little guy.

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