From as long as I can remember, I have had one very bothersome habit. This habit takes place primarily when I am seated upright, although it has also been known to rear its ugly head when I am prone or lying down. This habit has been pointed out to me by many people in many different contexts ranging from curiosity to irritation to exasperation to anger. The habit is this: one of my legs, typically the right, is, even when I am perfectly relaxed and at ease, often alert and moving up and down rapidly, bouncing forcefully against the fulcrum of the ball of my foot. My leg does this of its own accord; I don’t have to think for this to happen, I only realize it has been happening if someone alerts me to it.
When I was young, my family often went out for visits to the houses and properties of other families, visits on which I was expected to sit, quiet and prim with my hair combed over neatly to one side, and observe the adults talking. Almost always, I was seated next to my father, the firstborn cub osmosing, if only by proximity, from the charismatic and loquacious lion. Within minutes of being seated, my father would tap my knee, a tacit gesture telling me to curtail the whirring. Minutes later, my mind would lapse into some dream or other, far from the adult conversation about Palestine or healthcare or whatever, and, again, another tap would arrive at my knee, this time more pointed and forceful. Stop with the goddamn moving, is what the expression on my dad’s face would say, or at least it would have had I dared to look up at him after such a tap. Sometimes, I would triumph over my base legs and my dad would forget anything happened by the time we went home. Other times I would be such a flagrant repeat offender that, on the car drive back to our house, I would get chewed out for it at length.
Over the years, I have caused whole sofas, dinner tables, queen beds, cars, trucks, outdoor patios to shake. Fathers, mothers, siblings, relatives, wives, teachers, friends, coworkers, teammates and sometimes even little children have requested that I stop vibrating. Whatever city I am in takes on a tinge of San Francisco, an undertone of trembliness. It’s not a big thing, but it’s definitely a thing. I haven’t seen a professional for it, exactly, but I have not been above medicalizing my frisky leg. Using very half-baked medical information, I tried to pass it off as a genial case of self-diagnosed “hyperthyroidism”. This strategy proved to be effective almost never, since, sadly, most of the people I know are fairly well-educated and cannot be fooled that easily.
I never understood what drives this indefatigable activity in my legs. As constant as it was, it was also pointless. There was no use for it, it bothered everybody, it did not bring me any particular enjoyment, and I found it almost impossible to get rid of without paying my full attention to it at all times.
Well, now, finally, I understand why my leg has always done that.
My son Leith, who is almost 3 months old now, sometimes gets tired and cranky, as all babies do. In those times, he cries so wretchedly and intensely, a cry that nothing–not milk nor a fresh change nor a toy–can soothe. In those times, I now know what I can do.
I take my inconsolable Leithy and put him on my lap.
