Holy smokes! I’m not lazy by any means, but for once I’d like to be woken up by my alarm instead of being made to get up in order to figure out what chaos has my seven year old started in the kitchen. Hearing pans shuffling, my gut wrenches and I hope that I don’t have to wake up like this on Father’s Day.
In fact, I’d be thrilled to have a magazine subscription where I could luxuriously spend time on myself, but for now I’m hoping to avert a crisis – which I do, just in time. Granola pancakes with a touch of syrup happened to be on the menu this morning, the little chef being considerate of my diet to control my blood sugar, but adding sweetness to my ever bland breakfast he often gets. I thank him, but then I give a quick bark to get ready for the day – boy, how times flies.
As he runs off, I let out a deep tired sigh and think back to when I could hold my one year old world in my arms. It was just as exhausting and exciting, and I only had enough time to record his developmental milestones in bullet point form, in my handy red Moleskine journal meant for him.
You see, it’s a place where I record my thoughts for him, so that someday he’ll read them and come to find out what I was thinking throughout his young years. What it also is, is my quiet way of reminiscing of my boy. I’m terribly sentimental with him, so I often keep the things he’s made up for me – a lego garden, a handmade card, a bottle of our shared collected shells, rocks, and beach washed glass collected between the skipping of rocks. They are tokens that tell me I’ve done something right, reminders of our shared experiences, the highs and lows, which often soothe my momentary anxiety when I question myself and wonder if I’ve been a good enough of a father. Wondering, how will he turn out when his childhood is done?
Thanks to the task master, Papa, the morning moves like clock-work, and we’re all finishing at the breakfast table. Showered, shaved, and ready to start the day, I call my son over to get ourselves out the door. Per my routine, I pile on to my person my wallet, keys, change, phone, and note pad…except something is missing. I look around to no avail, and then my son calls my name, reaches into his pocket, and tells me, “Here’s your pen, Papa.” It’s my little chrome Space Pen that I carry with me wherever I go, so much so that people in shops do not offer me a pen anymore but simply wait for me to pull out my own. It’s small and novel, and something that has become a part of my identity –my son recognizes that! It makes me smile to think that he was trying it out in his own little pocket – yes, he will turn out to be like me, and more.
So, I’m reminded that the best Father’s Day gift I have ever been given has been the honor to be called, Papa, followed by the asking to come out and play. Someday, he’ll learn that his father never needed chocolate syrup, for as sappy as I get.
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