Watch and Think

Sir Ken Robinson: thought provoking and brilliant.

Facially Honest...

I Caught A Brunch And It Was This Big

Wax On, Wife? Off

I quoted a line from The Karate Kid (1984). Katie looked at me blankly.

- You have seen the Karate Kid, haven't you? 

- I know of the Karate Kid... that's the one with Jackie Chan in it.

Unbelievable. She doesn't even understand the title of this entry.  

The Maia and the Mess

I'm biased, but Maia truly is becoming very cute.

Leah is still a frikkin' mess.

Churches, Mean Witches and Knives.

I took their point.

I got a knife pulled on me yesterday.

No, wait, it gets better. Ask me where and when?

No, I wasn't walking back from a bar, taking a drunkenly judged short cut through a darkened alley in La Boca.

No, it wasn't even dark.

I was in church.

And it was a Saturday morning, around 1230am

Full story below. 


We'd taken the girls to the park for the morning - a lovely neighborhood park in a tree lined plaza, a great café on the near corner, a family friendly place if ever there was one.

After the slides and swings, we went for a coffee at the café. Leah, being 2, got bored and wandered off. I followed.


Wow, she said, looking at the church, a castle! Let's go find the princess! And off she went.

I left Katie drinking her coffee. By the time she would finish it, the following would have happened.

Running through the church door, Leah was met by a silence and space that she found, and I quote, Awesome. Now, where's the princess?


It is quite a grand Catholic church, and has that typically quiet, calm atmopshere that to some represents a soulful contentment but to me reminds me of school; itchy kilts, obligation, Sunday mornings.

The aisles and rows were empty, save for one moustachioed older man who seemed to be leaving, or at least was walking back down the central aisle, assumingly having said his prayers.

Leah took a seat towards the back, left, whispering, Wow, Daddy from time to time, and searching the rafter for either a princess or a mean witch. I stood in the aisle.

The man approached me, and speaking a bit louder than seemed appropriate, asked me if I knew the name of this barrio. It struck me as a fairly strange question, but I replied, Martinez. He said, No,  something I didn't catch, and then asked me if I had any work for him. Weirder still, I just said, Perdón, no.

Said the mean man, in Spanish. 

I thought he might be mad, but he was a little more articulate and better dressed than you might expect. He asked me for some money, and I said, No sorry, I haven't got anything. He mimicked what I said, sarcasticlly, with a more than touch of venom. No tenés nada, eh? La puta madre... No tenés nada... and walked towards the door.

Strong language in church for a guy who's just been praying, I thought. I thought he'd left, so didn't think much more about it, and went and sat with Leah, who was still in awe. I was worried she'd see and be disturbed by the depiction of Christ on the cross, hanging and bleeding above the altar, so tried ot distract her y looking for the Princess.  

A minute or so later I saw our guy at the front of the church again. He appeared to be 'circling', walking down the right side, across the front, back up the left. I was now convinced he was nuts, and had been doing this long before we'd got there, but also was starting to think that Leah and I should leave.

As he circled back left, towards us, I could hear a string of expletives pouring from his mouth. It was clearly directed at us. The gist of it was los jodido gringos, yo no puedo comer en mi propio país, y acá están los gringos... la puta madre, hijo de puta, no puedo trabajar en mi país y... You'll know lines well, but usually from they spout forth from a white van: These f**king foreigners, I can't eat in my own country and here we have some gringoes... (insert some bad words) I can't work in my country...

I stood up, he was standing in, or blocking the door. He wasn't overly aggressive physically, but there was a fair anger in his words. The setting, the silent church, was just surreal. All the while I was thinking British: Really, my good man, I understand your point, but would you please stop swearing in church. 

He reached in to his jacket, torrent of expletives continuing all the while, and pulled out a decent sized rusty trust old blade. More to show me he had it than as a real threat, I thought. Then again, unless you're  Mick Dundee, a knife is a knife. He was saying, on a loop: Yo soy Argentina. No son Argentina, yo soy Argentino... 

I said, more or less: Hablamos afuera, por favor, está es mi hija. Ella no tiene que escuchar... Let's talk outside, my daughter doesn't need to hear... and, as I didn't have a stab-proof jacket, I picked up Leah, keeping her scary-side, and considered my options.

I didn't actually want to talk to him. I didn't think that by pointing out that we weren't exactly in the same job market now were we? would help. Well, it might help me get punctured.

But I found myself in a bizarre theological dilemma. Option one: stay. If I stayed in church, I would be safe under the protection of the Lord. However, as I am not a believer, does that protection still count? Is the Lord like the AA - if you're in the car, you've covered, and they'll pick you up?

And I still thought that stabby man a Catholic, even if not a very good one. He was swearing in church, and surely aggressive in front of a 2 year old is poor form in any code. But still, they look after ecah other don't they, the Catholics? Who would the PopeGod protect?

If I went outside, to the park, which I definitely believe in, I would be away from the (potential) protection of the Lord, but I would also be in a wide open space away from the stabby man.

Outside, I reasoned.

He stepped back, away from the door, which I interpreted as a good thing, and carefully walked backwards - like in a mime - not wanting to turn my back on him, to the doorway. I didn't fall over, which was a relief.  

He followed but outside he walked away to the left yet increased the volume of abuse. Cada dia más: gringos, chinos, paraguayos... This was now catching the attention of passersby, who were, naturally, bewildered by the sight of an immigrant father carrying his little daughter getting yelled at by a mad local as they were all leaving church.

Beautiful language in front of a 2 year old, I said, and then -  because I'm rubbish at swearing in Spanish - Ciao.

Which is almost polite.

He then had a dig at Leah, at which point, a bit like a footballer who suddenly gets brave when he's a safe distance from any real danger, I turned around and I found that I could say lots of bad words in Spanish, said all of them, and crossed the road back to the café.

Katie'd finished her coffee. We didn't find a Princess, Leah informed her. I pointed out that we had found a mean witch, which appeased her a bit.

The search for a more incluive park begins tomorrow.

Bonkers.

Leah: you're 26 months, not 26.

At 26 months, I worry about Leah's language. She speaks wrong. I worry that because she's far from immediate family, she doesn't really get how families work, namely that we're the parents and ultimate figures of control, and she is the subservient minor. 


She speaks to us exactly as we speak to her.  


It's a problem. To illustrate:


While Katie was in conversation, politely ignoring Leah's attempts to interrupt:
- "Mummy.. Mummy... (no response)... Katie... Ka-tie! ...  Hey, BABE!"


Sitting on my shoulders on the way back from the doctor, passing the video shop.
- "Hey, Dougs! Let's go get a movie!" 


"That's a not." This has become a catchphrase, as in:
- Parent: "Leah, would you like some fruit?" 
- Leah. "That's a not."


- "Come on, Leah, it's bed time." 
- "That's a not. (Lies down, starts kicking feet in the air) "I'm doing pi-la-tes."


Woke up at 2:15am to hear Leah, sounding ominously wide awake, shouting: 
- "Daddy... Daddy"
I wander through to her room 
- "Leah, do you know what time it is?"
- "Yeah... It's Party Time!"


It was so not party time.