Last night was date night/Twin Peaks night. Neil and I haven’t had one of those in a long time, so Isla spent last night at Dad and Anne’s, playing with their cats and probably having too much sugar.
She left and my heart felt like Swiss cheese. She came back and I touched her face and said I love you. She gave me her plastic Skye from Paw Patrol to keep until she gets back and out she runs demanding that Campah turn some music on for the ride over the river and through the woods five minutes up the road.
I was nervy yesterday. Hours before, I’d made Isla a sandwich so big it didn’t fit in her purple lunch box, which goes with her in her teal panda bear school bag to nursery which is another place she goes without me. But she loves it, and that’s how life goes.
Anyway, she left again for a sugar rush. And I gave Skye the plastic toy an actual hug.
Neil and I watch Twin Peaks while eating shrimp stir-fry and and at various intervals I’m saying, ‘What the shit are we watching?’ Which is not entirely unlike what I said when we binge-watched it a few years ago.
‘What the shit are we watching?’
We watched and wondered then it was this morning.
We had coffee and thought the house was too quiet without cartoons on, but didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.
I was reading and thinking about another coffee when Dad ‘stops in’ as he does, to talk about ALL THE THINGS.
He’d dropped Isla off at nursery this morning and today’s topics over coffee were:
- Siberian kittens
- Internet connections and how they are so, um, temperamental up here.
- Isla’s birthday. Three next month. How?
Dad left several times and then came back, not unlike Isla or Columbo, for one more thing.
Now. Y’all know I love my Dad. You can read about it here.
However. On the sixth trip back after 1.5 hours, I said , ‘I love you, get out of my house.’ He leaves, but then smooches his face in the kitchen window singing the old version of the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse theme. To which I replied, ‘I love you, FUCK OFF.’
Now. You might also remember my father doesn’t like when I swear.
He thinks it shows a lack of whatever the hell it is, I forget.
However. I’ll always remember a conversation with my Grandma, the one who’s Dad’s mother.
When I was a kid, I asked Grandma if I could swear.
‘Creatively. And only when there are no other words for it,’ she said.
And I’ve kind of thought of it that way ever since.
In related news, I hope Isla and I have the kind of relationship where when she grows up she can always come home for coffee and one more thing.
And I hope she lets me in when I visit and we talk about all the things. She can even tell me off sometimes.
Like when I smudge her kitchen window with my face. And I’ll laugh, the same as Dad did today.
Dad, one more thing. Same time tomorrow?
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