…this list is dedicated to the five weird habits of my highly weird son.
That night, Ian only had eyes for Bethlehem. He kept pointing at the city, its bright, yellow walls and turqoise-domed roofs shining through the trees. There was no sign of Wayne Newton. ‘Beth…le…hem! Beth…le…hem!’
When you tell someone your name, they generally don’t care why your parents named you ‘Moon Unit’. But if you tell someone you’re only going to have one child, you’d better have a reason. Unfortunately, I’ve yet to find one that works.
I hand the bag of rainbow-colored Goldfish to Ian. He smiles, says ‘thank you’, and dumps the crackers into a pile. He looks at the fish, frowns, puts his chin in his hands, and says, ‘Let’s see…’
So many experiences are too subtle for words, and, if you must describe them, it’s best to use as few words as possible. This is certainly the case with being a dad.
…the thought of my own death doesn’t bother me so much. I don’t like the idea of leaving my family behind, but, somehow, I’m comforted to know that Kelly and Ian will have each other. I am less so at the thought of Kelly’s passing.
Despite my selfish impatience, I like to think that at such times, the father who I would become, am becomming, was speaking to me.
At first, ‘no’ is simply a statement of preference. ‘Father, I’d really rather not be a part of this.’ But, on the whole, parents don’t much care. We know what’s best, and we understand the consequences of an unchanged diaper or playing with Mama’s pinking shears. Children live in the present, parents live in the future.