Sticky Tape

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I’m fine with my tapes because the radio sucks here

I hear you can still buy new cars with stereos that play cassettes. Tapes, as we called them as kids. They were cool as anything back then. Wow, we could fit two albums on a 90-minute tape, one on each side. All of Neil Young’s “Decade” on one tape, maybe, or a compilation of favorite punk songs from Bad Brains to Bad Religion and Suicidal Tendencies, or a bit of Janis Joplin for the long drive deep into Baja for a week of surfing.

Remember tapes?

My glove compartment sure does. It still looks right out of the 1980s and early 90s. It’s stuffed with tapes of bands from back then and before. Blur, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Morrissey, Oasis, Pulp, The Stone Roses, Van Morrison and more. A friend once opened it up and said, “Whoa, retro man!” It wasn’t the selection of music, I don’t think. It was the tapes.

I do have an iPod but it doesn’t live in the glove compartment. It does, however, do its thing by plugging into a cassette that slips into the stereo so we can hear the songs. The iPod is for long journeys. Connect and listen as the road passes by. My wife does the spinning and the kids clamor for their stuff – ABBA and High School Musical and maybe a bit of the “Curious George” soundtrack by Jack Johnson – until they nod off to sleep.

That’s the music for the car on long trips. Around the city, it’s my tapes (and my wife’s) that fill the car. It can be a pain to plug in the iPod and scroll around for an artist or an album or a playlist in the middle of traffic. So I push the tape in and listen. That’s it. In it stays playing one side and then the other side with a clank or two or three when it switches between sides. One tape does four or five clanks before turning over to the other side. Then the static comes on followed by The Waterboys’ “This is the Sea” on one side before clank, clank and “Fisherman’s Blues” on the other side. It’s good stuff for chilling out to and forgetting the day’s work and the mad taxi drivers and the manic bus drivers. It’s music to keep you sane in the traffic of Buenos Aires where the reigning motif is “Get out of my way, pelotudo.”

Relax!

Well, my son’s not buying the relaxing bit right now, not to The Waterboys at least.

“Not this again,” he says from his booster seat. “Why don’t you put on the iPod?”

Yup, he’s five and in with the digital times and I’m 43 and still playing tapes. The consolation, of course, is that cars still come out of the assembly line with cassette players for oldies like me with a lingering love of all those antiquated, outmoded and so very analog cassettes. I don’t care because my tapes are kick-ass and they will live on in my glove compartment for years to come, retro as they may be, retro as I may be.

Mr. Mom’s Wild Ride

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That’s right. Smile and pretend that everything’s just fine.

I have two weeks on my own as a dad with his son. My wife’s in England with the two girls for a wedding. I thought no sweat, this solo stint with one kid will be no trouble at all.

Not at all.

Well, sort of not at all.

I sort of figured that all those things my wife does would still have to get done. But I only sort of figured with a shrug of my shoulders and a “yeah, yeah.”

Well, my “yeah, yeah” soon led to a pile of dirty washing and a pile of ironing. I worked as usual at my home office, leaving these chores until later. And with time the washing and the dishes and the ironing piled up and up and, uh oh, the refrigerator and the cupboards emptied and emptied.

By day three we were out of milk and bread and my son was protesting at my offer of water in his cereal and a rice cake sandwich for lunch. And, please, no pizza, no empanadas and no more pasta with butter and grated cheese for dinner. Well, that was a good thing, I thought, because we were out of grated cheese.

So we defrosted the soup.

Not bad. My wife had made it and that was a great selling point for my son because Mum’s food is best.

Still, the dirty laundry continued to pile up. My son vomited in his bed and then mine. The sheets went to the pile on top of his dirty school uniform until the morning when, uh oh, I realized he had no clean uniform. So on went yesterday’s. Don’t mind the snack stains. Off you go. Quick! Five blocks to walk and across the train tracks and another two to school. What do you mean your legs don’t work? Okay, okay. I’ll carry you. Off we go. Don’t worry about my aching back!

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“The birthday party!”

“Ah, yeah…”

Man, there’s a lot to remember. Birthdays, play dates, therapy sessions, the school bus on Friday’s and forms to sign. And don’t forget the fruit of the week to take to school on Wednesdays! This week it’s tangerines, no bananas. Or is it apples?

Okay, home at last. Walk the dog. Yes, my son, you have to come. We’ll go just a block, okay? And home and into the bath. Your uniform’s not too, too dirty. Good. Now dinner. Let’s see, rice cakes, no. Pasta? Pizza? Okay, a sandwich. Yeah, but there’s no mayonnaise. Cream cheese is pretty good on sandwiches. What do you say? Good.

Now to bed, one story, okay two. Now to sleep. What do you mean you can’t sleep? Okay, you can sleep in my bed because I can’t sleep either. But it’s my choice of what to watch on television so no protests. We settle on Man v. Food, a cheese-ball program about a man out to eat the biggest hamburgers, pizzas and plates of deep-fried chicken in America. Then something about Jamie Oliver helping a young man run a pub. I know, not the most riveting programs. But I’ve got insomnia thinking about how to make it through all the events tomorrow not to mention the rest of the week. I’ve got a meeting downtown and then have to race back to pick up my son and run home. There’s a family outing booked weeks ago. We’re going on a nighttime tour of the zoo with my son’s friend and their parents. Eat first? Yeah, I’m hungry too but there’s no time. Got to race. What about a few rice cakes for the car? Yeah, I didn’t think so. Well, let’s get going. We’ll see what we can find to eat at the zoo.

I sought solace in my wife’s friends during the tour. They smiled at my grumbling and distress about how hard it is to parent on your own, to keep on top of the cooking, shopping, washing and the kid’s schedule and so much more. They listened with few comments but their faces said a lot more with expressions of now you know what it’s like.

Yup, I do. It sure is easier to go out to work, or in my case to escape to my home office for the day. Taking care of children is much, much harder so my hat’s off to my wife.

If I could find my hat.

And where’s my son’s uniform and his shoes. And his backpack? And, oh, where’s he got to be tomorrow before school?

Uh ho, insomnia again!

Breakfast at Barbie’s

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The girls are in England and we’re getting bored at home.

My wife and the two girls are away for a couple of weeks, off to a wedding in England. That leaves me and my son to fend for ourselves in Argentina.

It’s quiet around the house.

We woke up the first day after their departure and sat down for breakfast. No wife/mother, no seven-year-old daughter/sister and no two-year-old daughter/sister. Just us and the dog. We could do as many loutish things as we wanted and blame the dog and not get told off. We laughed and did it again. And then ate our cereal. We could hear each other munching. [continue reading…]