Infinite Repeat

We were nearing the end of a long day. Up at 6:00, servile ‘til the late summer sundown. Only two hours to go. We were driving home from Alex’s trumpet lesson, listening to They Might Be Giants. Like you do. “Particle Man” came on.

Is he a dot, or is he a speck,
When he’s underwater, does he get wet,
Or does the water get him instead?
Nobody knows… Particle Man.

Everyone wanted me to play that part over. “Does the water get him instead!” they’d repeat with incredulity.

“That’s so awesome!” Alex said, and repeated it again.

I remember when I first thought the same thing. I was 16 years old and desperately in love with my so-called best friend. Saw my first concert with her (Depeche Mode), spent afternoons at her house talking about The Smiths and wishing we could just do it already or at least kiss. I confessed my love for that girl with all the balls of a kid whose dad had caught him stealing from the change-jar and had half a mind to send him straight to Msgr. Bodick, and I couldn’t understand why she didn’t reciprocate my ardor.

Triangle man hates person man,
They have a fight, Triangle wins.
Triangle man.

It may be unreasonable to hope my boys remain forever impressed with the tantalizing possibility of Particle Man’s imperviousness to water, but I hope it nonetheless. Parenting is the process of convincing yourself that you’re guiding children toward adulthood as they slide away into an independence of their own design.

Back in the car, they ask me to play that part over again.

“Which part?” I ask. “The one about when he’s underwater?”

“What are you talking about, Dad?” asks Conner, dislodging a single earbud and looking up from his iPhone.

I look back at him, over my shoulder. I can’t believe how adult he looks these days. Before I know it, he’ll be driving me around.

“The song,” I say. It’s just me and Conner. Jack and Alex are still there, but only sort of, already obsessed with something new.

“Oh,” says Conner, and smiles at me sweetly. “If you want, sure. I don’t think any of us mind.”

In the rearview mirror, I watch him push the earbud back into place. It’s an odd combination of forceful and suave. Some tilt, some wiggle, some turn.

It’s an art, I realize, to tune out the noise. A delicate surgery to put the seal in place. Adults’ work to keep it.