- Mermaid and Merman.
- My Little Pony.
- Smurfs
- Barbie and Ken
- Al Gator
- Doggy Daddy
- Horse fantasies with Breyer collectibles
- The Big Bad Moof
I was a "24/7 on-call make believer" when my kids were…kids.
On my recent visit to Ashland, Oregon to visit Victoria and Rick (to experience my precious girl being with child), we had our ritual Dad + Victoria day. The gem for the day was to see the current Harry Potter movie (I think we have seen all of them together…or close). She had waited for me, but admittedly I cheated and saw it when it came out. As justice, though, I slept through a good part of it (its and AARP thing), so it was really like seeing it fresh. We spent the first part of the day meandering through the Ashland bookstore, favorite specialty shops, looking for a rocking/glider chair (cool, if there exists one), eating lunch and ending up at the local theater.
The movie was awesome and yes, I made it through without even a yawn. We were on our way home in the car, a moment of golden silence, when it hit me like sudden storm that appears without warning: this was the last time we would go to a movie together like we had so many times through the years; the closing of one chapter and beginning a glorious new one. And I spilled over. The tears came and came, intensifying with each memory flickering across the white screen of my soul like so many movie trailers. Victoria looked over and asked, “Dad, are you OK? Do you need me to pull over?" By this time the tears were accompanied by gasps for breath, but I was able to get out, “No…I’m…fine. It’s all good…really.” Each time I began to get it under control, another image surfaced and the surge returned. Finally, I shared my revelation, completing it with, “This is just life’s story turning pages. Not bad, just different…and precious.” We cried together. Hugged. Laughed. And melted back into the golden silence.
I remember a past moment when Victoria and I went to a movie in Nashville. She was around twelve years old. We had gotten out of the car, and like so many times before when walking I reached over and placed my arm gently on her shoulder. She immediately stopped, removed my arm and anxiously commented, “Dad, please don’t touch me in public. Someone might see us.” Not cool. She’s a big girl now. Peer pressure. Dads are dorks. I felt like the incredible shrinking man, but I accommodated her request.
Little girls grow up from make believe and become young women, wives and mothers. Dads grow up from make believe and become dorks, friends, back to Dads and then become Grand Dudes (if we’re lucky). And then, hopefully, one day the make believe begins again. Different.
I believe that all the moments that we are given in this life can make believing magical, precious and treasured. You, too, can play make believe. You, too, can make what you believe, real.
On my recent visit to Ashland, Oregon to visit Victoria and Rick (to experience my precious girl being with child), we had our ritual Dad + Victoria day. The gem for the day was to see the current Harry Potter movie (I think we have seen all of them together…or close). She had waited for me, but admittedly I cheated and saw it when it came out. As justice, though, I slept through a good part of it (its and AARP thing), so it was really like seeing it fresh. We spent the first part of the day meandering through the Ashland bookstore, favorite specialty shops, looking for a rocking/glider chair (cool, if there exists one), eating lunch and ending up at the local theater.
The movie was awesome and yes, I made it through without even a yawn. We were on our way home in the car, a moment of golden silence, when it hit me like sudden storm that appears without warning: this was the last time we would go to a movie together like we had so many times through the years; the closing of one chapter and beginning a glorious new one. And I spilled over. The tears came and came, intensifying with each memory flickering across the white screen of my soul like so many movie trailers. Victoria looked over and asked, “Dad, are you OK? Do you need me to pull over?" By this time the tears were accompanied by gasps for breath, but I was able to get out, “No…I’m…fine. It’s all good…really.” Each time I began to get it under control, another image surfaced and the surge returned. Finally, I shared my revelation, completing it with, “This is just life’s story turning pages. Not bad, just different…and precious.” We cried together. Hugged. Laughed. And melted back into the golden silence.
I remember a past moment when Victoria and I went to a movie in Nashville. She was around twelve years old. We had gotten out of the car, and like so many times before when walking I reached over and placed my arm gently on her shoulder. She immediately stopped, removed my arm and anxiously commented, “Dad, please don’t touch me in public. Someone might see us.” Not cool. She’s a big girl now. Peer pressure. Dads are dorks. I felt like the incredible shrinking man, but I accommodated her request.
Little girls grow up from make believe and become young women, wives and mothers. Dads grow up from make believe and become dorks, friends, back to Dads and then become Grand Dudes (if we’re lucky). And then, hopefully, one day the make believe begins again. Different.
I believe that all the moments that we are given in this life can make believing magical, precious and treasured. You, too, can play make believe. You, too, can make what you believe, real.
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09/09/09...he was born two months early...he was born 4 lbs. and 17 inches...he was born with no name...he was born from, with and for love.
For emphasis - (b)
For emphasis - (b)
Posts
Grand Dude x 2, your best work comes of writing of time with your kids...there's a book in this somewhere, I just feel it...and being a girl, I'm tempted to point you to writing about the Dad n Daughter moments first (my apologies to your son)...
ReplyDeleteI think my son will accept your apology. Thanks for the encouragement. Something magical about a Dad and his little princess. Its all about investing and embracing the time.
ReplyDelete2X thanks
(b)