Good Old Goat
The screaming goat is many things. A plastic, three-inch figurine that shrieks when you press its back. A moving company’s service bell. A toy for my son and his cousins, who have become built-in siblings now that we’ve moved to their coast. My nephews announce their arrival to our house by cueing the goat’s operatic scream. Then the boys wrestle in the basement, squabble in the backyard over pool toys, bathe in the large tub with dozens of duckies. Had my husband and I waited longer to move, the boys, ages four, seven, and nine, might’ve outgrown bathtime and sleepovers, and my dad might not have had the energy to play with them, or more importantly, to commute back and forth. West coast to East coast. East to West.
The move brought stress with a side of chaos. Stomach flus! Surprise expenses! Pre-K tantrums! The goat shrieked for us all.
My husband: AAAAH! looming recession.
Me: AAAAH! 143 moving boxes.
Our son: AAAAH! where are we and where are the cookies?
My dad: AAAAH! how do I live a bicoastal life?
In our old house, my husband and I ate takeout on disposable plates. In our new home, my dad stays for weeks at a time and makes dinner, cleans up, and manages the dishwashers. The screaming goat marks the dirty washer, hopping from one counter to the other, commuting back and forth. It’s silly, as silly as having two dishwashers, but it works for us.
I thought the days of living with Dad were over. We’re closer now than we were thirty-some years ago, when I was a kid.
Kid me: AAAAH! what do you mean Mom doesn’t live with us anymore?
My dad: AAAAH! I’m a physician, not a therapist.
Kid me: AAAAH! what? What do you mean we’re moving farther away from Mom, and now I have a stepmom and an older brother and a baby sister?
My dad: AAAAH! Just—I don’t know, I’m super duper busy—please go to school and get good grades and listen to the nanny.
Dad plays nanny these days. He helps with bedtime and bathtime, carpooling and cooking, roof leaks and rodent problems. When the load of parenting, or homeownership, or life, really, feels like too much, I think of that wonderful operatic goat scream and laugh. Or I simply go to the kitchen. The old goat’s always there for me now.
