The child I once was still lives inside me. For now, Sara enjoys having a childish dad—but what happens when she grows up and leaves me behind?—
Before you rack your brain trying to figure out what “kaleh-pook” means, allow me to save you the trouble. Unless you are familiar with the Persian language—or at least with its colorful collection of insults—you probably have no idea what it means.
Those intrepid readers who make it to the end of this relatively short post will discover its meaning, understand how it relates directly to Sara and me, and deepen their knowledge of the finer points of the Persian language.
Let me begin by noting that “kaleh-pook” was the first expression I learned in my parents’ native language. When I was a child, my mother would shout it at me whenever I did something she disapproved of. Sometimes this was accompanied by a shoe flying through the air. At other times, she would chase me around the dining table, shoe in hand, convinced that she would eventually catch me and give me the punishment she believed I deserved.
I was a mischievous child, and my mother—bless her—is the kind of person who is quick to anger and just as quick to forgive.
It happened when I fought with my brother, Tomer—which was basically every day, all day long. It happened when my teacher complained that my clowning around was making it difficult for her to teach the rest of the class. It happened when I rushed through my homework so I could get it over with and move on to what truly mattered—playing soccer with my friends—only to receive the inevitable comment from my teacher about the quality of my work.
In short, “kaleh-pook” was one of the most frequently heard expressions in our home back in those far-off days.
As we grew older, my brother, my sister, and I began joking about the funny expression we had come to know so well. Eventually, we started calling one another “kaleh-pook” just for fun.
Whenever we mention the expression to my mother today, her memory mysteriously becomes selective. She refuses to admit that she ever used it quite so often—and certainly not at us.
Never mind. The important thing is that we haven’t forgotten.
The Child Who Still Lives Inside Me
By now, you are probably wondering what obscure Persian insults have to do with a blog like Sara and Me.
Well, longtime readers may remember a post titled “Infantility,” in which I openly confessed to my childish nature. Like almost everything else in my messed-up life, the reason for this serious emotional problem lies somewhere in the distant days of my childhood.
That anxious, introverted, solitary child stopped growing emotionally, in my estimation, at the age of twelve, when he decided to withdraw from the world and confine himself within his own four walls.
In other words, emotionally, I remained a child who never found a way to grow up.
There is no doubt that fatherhood has forced me to grow up emotionally, at least to some extent. But I have had so many years of practice at being childish that childishness has become second nature to me—an inseparable part of who I am.
Before Sara was born, my childishness manifested itself in many different ways: an addiction to console video games, getting a license to ride a high-powered motorcycle in my late forties without ever actually putting it to use, devouring candy and cakes, and maintaining a generally childish attitude toward life.
Since becoming a father, I no longer have the time—or even the energy—to devote myself to those old interests. Nevertheless, I have found a way to adapt my childishness to my new role.
The silly things Sara and I do are turning my dear 76-year-old mother’s hair white at a rate that no artificial hair dye could possibly keep up with.
A Dad Who Goes With the Flow
My motto is simple: go with the flow and let Sara do whatever she wants, as long as it does not endanger her health or safety.
I let her try to eat by herself with a spoon, even though I know perfectly well that she is not quite there yet. Within moments, the floor, the high chair, Sara’s clothes, and Sara herself will all be enjoying the puréed food. I also know that I will have quite a cleanup ahead of me afterward.
As long as she is enjoying herself, I go with the flow.
When she insists on staying in the bathtub a little longer so she can play with the water and her rubber fish and ducks, I go with the flow.
When she demands that I carry her in my arms, even though my back gave up on life a long time ago—I go with the flow.
Now that you understand the principle, you can probably conclude that I am all set for the next few years. Sara will enjoy having a childish father who is capable of feeling—and perhaps even thinking—the way she does. I genuinely laugh at all her mischievous behavior, which drives her grandmother out of her mind.
My childish nature makes it easier for me to connect with Sara, and probably makes it easier for her to connect with me. At this stage in our lives, my childishness works in her favor.
But What Will Happen When Sara Grows Up?
What will happen in a few years, when Sara begins to grow up and mature while I, perhaps, remain behind?
That question troubles me and keeps me awake at night. Sara is already remarkably intelligent for her age, and she is developing quickly. When she eventually passes me by, will she still love me? At what point in her life will she realize that her father really is a “kaleh-pook”?
Will she laugh at my infantile jokes, if only to spare me the embarrassment, or will she refuse to grant me even that small kindness? Will she be embarrassed by me in front of her friends? Will she prefer that I not come along on her school trips?
The Fear of Becoming My Father
One of the most difficult things I have had to admit over the course of writing this blog is how difficult my relationship with my father has been.
As a child, I was ashamed of my father: because of the way he sometimes behaved in public, because he dressed sloppily, as though he couldn’t care less how he looked, and because of his simple, unglamorous job.
Is fate preparing a similar future for me as a father?
Who would have believed that I might one day become like my father, whom I despised for most of my life—and that, in the end, both of us would be hated by our children?
Still, as pessimistically as I may view the future, I can promise one thing: I will do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. I will go to extraordinary lengths to ensure that Sara never feels ashamed of me and never comes to hate me.
Beyond the obvious selfish reason I have for wanting to prevent it, such an outcome could be far worse for Sara. She could end up in a troubled relationship with the only parent she has—a parent who is also 52 years older than she is.
And yet, if we sadly ever reach that point, it will bring my life full circle: both my mother and my daughter—the two women in my life, the two Saras in my life—will think that I am a “kaleh-pook.”
Or, quite literally: hollow-headed.
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