Life with Stevo

Julie recently found (and posted on Facebook) an absolutely hilarious YouTube video of a baby falling asleep sitting bolt upright. He would nod off, head would drop drop drop then UP it would go, eyes would open, awake again…but in a second, sleep would overtake him once more. Julie’s caption? “Dad as a baby.”

We’re quite used to Dad dropping off this way, so exhausted is he by his ridiculous schedule. He swears he is adequately rested, yet how can he be with a 4 AM awakening? He goes downstairs, on to a day that includes officework, a rehearsal and one or two performances. No wonder he’s off to Dreamland the minute he hits the sofa at night. But I got a kick out of Julie’s affectionate teasing, and Steve did too. 

My Favorite Fairy Godmother

The kids are also used to a father who often wears dresses—in his children’s shows, I hasten to add.  He is an unattractive but fabulously funny Delmarva the wicked stepsister in Cinderella, Glinda the Good Witch in The Wizard of Oz. His shows, almost 30 in all, are so beloved by our offspring that they can—and do—quote chapter and verse. They’ve been discussing getting a sibling tattoo (we shall see), and have tentatively chosen the line “No, that’s definitely an arm,” (you had to be there) which they plan to have inked on body parts OTHER than their arms. They have, to a person, inherited Steve’s great—and goofy—sense of humor.

Another area where Dad comes in for a ribbing: his musical pursuits. What he lacks in talent, he more than makes up in verve. His repertoire begins with The Kingston Trio and ends with Peter, Paul and Mary—and just a few selections from both. There are times I fervently wish I’d thought to hide the guitar as I hear the unmistakable chords of “Charlie and the MTA” for the umpteenth time. 

My Stevo

Steve has a colorful vocabulary, which has never been directed at any of us, but is a regular feature of his interactions with inanimate objects—computer, copier, printer, car. Most of his comments are not fit for a family blog, but when he’s at his very angriest, what emerges from his mouth is not another profanity but: “You dirty dog!”— clearly, the ultimate epithet. We tease him about this too, and about his propensity for leaving the house and returning multiple times for forgotten items—keys, phone, briefcase. Indeed, when Sher was only about 4, he had a routine of coming in, slamming the door, running out, coming in, etc. saying “I’m bein’ Daddy.”

All kidding aside, his children adore him, and so do I. They have the utmost respect for his tremendous work ethic, his loyalty, and his love for them, and I know they will always remember those things about their father. I believe they will also remember the laughter that rings through our house, thanks in large part to their goofy, tired, wonderful dad—the ultimate good sport.