Why isn't he dancing?
In the morning our son has a rash on his face. Scarlet fever. I knew it would happen. On the very day he has his big performance in the nativity theatre. My wife is already at work. I get him dressed and take him to the joint practice, where fortunately the old witch is not present, waving children on to hospital in droves.
«It's not scarlet fever,» says the doctor, «it's an allergic reaction. Do you have a new washing powder?» - «Maybe the excitement?» I suggest. «He's performing in the nativity play today. As Joseph.» My voice cracks at the end of the sentence. The paediatrician prescribes my son an anti-allergy medication and me a schnapps.
I'm probably just a go-getter, or my big moment comes in old age.
On the way to kindergarten, my son takes me by the hand: «You know, Dad, I never want to be as old as you.» I immediately agree with him. From around the age of twelve, a person becomes a cliché. He then behaves in the way we know from bad films, except that the bad film is his life. Some adults try to discover the child in themselves and become a mega-cliché in the process.
Did I like being a child myself? It goes like this. But do I like being an adult? That's also possible. I'm probably just a go-along-to-get-along kind of person, or my finest hour will come in old age.
I think back to my own first theatre performance. It had been in the second grade, our school had put on «The Little Witch». I was dressed up as a potato and danced along with a carrot in a musical scene. I can't remember the music, but I do remember how unhappy I was because I wanted to be a carrot too.
If it's mainly the emotions that remain in the memory, what will my son say about today? «Don't worry,» I tell him on the way to kindergarten. «It'll be a very, very long time before you're as old as me.»
Rash matches Joseph
Five hours later, I'm sitting with my wife and the other parents in front of a stage where the nativity play is about to begin. The atmosphere is tense. My mother-in-law, who has also come, is filming the empty stage. My hands are wet as the children enter. Our son's face is bright red. The rash has definitely got worse. But it looks good on him. A rash suits Josef.
The children start to dance. What will stay? And what might be better off disappearing?
As the first sentences of the story begin to play, my son starts to pick his nose extensively. «It looks good on him. A rash suits Joseph,» I whisper as my mother-in-law continues filming. Then music plays. The children start to dance. What will remain? What will survive all these years and what will disappear into the depths of time? And what will perhaps disappear better?
«Why isn't he dancing?» my wife calls out, as our son stands stiff as a stick between the jumping shepherds. «Joseph isn't dancing,» I explain. «Joseph is picking his nose and has a rash.» Long live the cliché, I think and jump up and dance, just like I did when I was a potato.
