Remember that?

Posted: January 11th, 2010 | Author: Dave | Filed under: Fatherhood, Toddlers | 3 Comments »

I remember my father in  his twenties — younger than I am now — wearing plaid pants, dollar store slippers and a bright blue t-shirt that read “Master of Disaster” in fuzzy iron-on letters. A soggy cigar hung from his mouth. It was early in the morning, and we had already been up for hours, fishing for our breakfast in a Canadian lake. Standing in the grass, he was gutting a perch. I must tell you, there’s nothing quite like sawing the head off of a still-gasping fish.

Years later my aunt brought me to an Indy Car race. I saw Mario Andretti’s car up close, stuffed myself with junk food and then threw it all up again on the way home.

As the years went on my sisters and I buried three dogs, two cats, and a brown rabbit named Rainbow. These are the things that a child remembers: Feeling special with dad; a fun outing with a favorite aunt; burying the family pet.

Last week Grace piped up from the car seat. “Dad, remember when you played that funny game where you put my green coat on your head and marched up and down the hallway? That was funny.”

“Yeah,” I said, and the weight of what happened in that instant was suddenly overwhelming.

“Dear God,” I thought. “I’m responsible for their childhood memories.”

I started to do the math. “Okay,” I thought. “William is only four ….” I searched for the oldest files in my mind — what I could recall from being 4. I clearly remember the boy who ate all the purple crayons — and ONLY the purple crayons — in kindergarten. I must have been 4 or 5 years old at the time, which means that William is in The Danger Zone: he might recall what I do from here on out. I felt a mild rising panic as I proceeded to try to identify any “standout” events from the past year.

There was the night I inadvertently dropped the F-bomb in front of him (not that there’s anything wrong with that), which he was thrilled to repeat. I’ve been known to let him paint shoulder-length “gloves” on himself, but only for formal occasions. I’m still regretting the night I laughed hysterically as he compared his poo to tortellini.

I was still obsessing over all of this as I put the kids to bed. Usually, my wife tucks William in, sings his lullabies, and asks about his favorite part of the day. But since she was stuck at a PTA meeting, I had to do it. I followed William into his room. He got into bed and I turned out the light.

“Mom’s not here,” I said, “so I’ll sing your lullabies tonight. What songs does mommy sing?”

“She sings that mommy one,” He answered.

“Well, what’s it called?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just a mommy one.”

I could see that I was on a dead-end street, so I changed tactics. “Well, I know ‘Rainbow Connection,’” I said. “Would you like me to sing that?” He nodded, and I sang.

When I finished, he said, “Okay, that’s the Daddy Lullaby.”

I smiled, and asked him, “So what was your favorite part of the day?”

He said, “Your lullaby.”

It ain’t pulling the guts from a fish, but it’s a start.

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