This week's writer's post is to write about two days ago. Heck! I can't remember two days ago or much of yesterday for that matter. I'm guessing I probably hung out on the couch in my post surgery laziness.
Now ask me about forty-seven years ago and I can give you vivid details. I had my first surgery right before my third birthday. The people in the scary blue outfits gave me something and told me to go to sleep, but I didn't. I lay awake on my stomach and watched blue people wash their hands. Whenever anyone ventured near me, I snapped my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep because I was scared I'd get in trouble for not minding them. Don't worry, I fell asleep before they took my tonsils out and removed my hemangioma.
I remember age four. I had to go to the bathroom and was so proud of the fact that I did it without telling my mom. I still remember sitting on that toilet seat thinking, I am so grown up. Then I made a conscious decision to remember this moment. And I do.
Sometimes one can actually force a memory on a child. My father died when my kids were five, three, and eight months. The year and a half before his death was an awful time of him lying in bed with pail skin and no legs. Yet at his low moment, he lifted his head and made a funny face at the baby. That was my wonderful Dad.
I wanted my kids to remember Dad, but not the illness part--the fun Dad who was a loving grandfather. My mother was in the hospital (a story for another post) and Dad wanted to show my kids something fun. Art students had made a wonderful, life sized, wooden bus. My kids, then three and one, relished in climbing all over it.
For years after that, I said, "Remember when Grandpa took you to see the bus?" Alas, the twenty-two year old has no memory of the event; however, the twenty-four year old has a beautiful life time memory of fun with his grandfather!
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| I'd be in black and white! |
Sometimes one can actually force a memory on a child. My father died when my kids were five, three, and eight months. The year and a half before his death was an awful time of him lying in bed with pail skin and no legs. Yet at his low moment, he lifted his head and made a funny face at the baby. That was my wonderful Dad.
I wanted my kids to remember Dad, but not the illness part--the fun Dad who was a loving grandfather. My mother was in the hospital (a story for another post) and Dad wanted to show my kids something fun. Art students had made a wonderful, life sized, wooden bus. My kids, then three and one, relished in climbing all over it.
A day late, but I'd like to wish my dad a Happy Father's Day. Oh how I wish I could.
