This past week, I've had several friends announce baby news. Apparently Christmas Break 2009 was a very loving time. But it got me thinking about babies and parenting (no, Mom, don't get excited), and as I did so, I recalled the the following story . . .
I remember when I was young--okay,younger,--I was with my family driving in the car when my father was asked the most dreaded question in all of parentdom:
"Daddy, who's your favorite?"
Himself being the driver of thevehicle, Ford Excursion, bus, aircraft carrier, it's not like my dad could have just walked away from the topic right then and there. He was pinned. He deftly tried to avert the conversation, but we were no fools! Yes, my friends, we, his posterity, had a right to know. Unfortunately, our efforts were met with a stock answer: "I love you all equally, but in different ways."
Psch. Yeah right. We were young, but we weren't stupid. The conversation continued as we exerted, with all the logical capacities our sub-14-year old minds could muster, the fallacy of our father's statement. Rebuttal after rebuttal, we tried to ensnare our father in his own words, waiting for the one slip-up, the one loophole that we could exploit . . .
that's when I saw it.
Could it be true? Did mine eyes deceive me? I doubted myself. But there it had been! Yes! I had seen it! There, in the rearview mirror, surely as the stars at night, I had seen my father look me in the eyes and mouth "you are."
For years I believed this. For years I kept that secret near and dear to my heart. Never once mentioning it again with my father, never once gloating to the other children. Being the oldest, I did, after all, possess the birthright--did my siblings really need to know that that was not all I had won from them?
Several months ago this, topic came up again in family conversation. My father replied with the same stock answer, but I knew the truth. Later, in private, I approached him.
"Don't worry, Dad. I still know."
My father furrowed his brow. " . . . Still know what?"
"You know . . . that I'm your favorite kid."
"HA! What? You think--what? HA! Where did you hear that?"
Not the response I was expecting. At all. I recounted the story of years past to my father, who vehemently denied it (a cover-up? maybe). Regardless, I left the conversation confused, once again having to revisit the question of "how can a parent not have a favorite kid?"
Today, as I was eating Starburst, I received my answer.
Some days I like pink, some days I like red. I like them both for different reasons, and on some days I definitely prefer one to the other. But I could never choose a favorite.
Ergo, children are like Starbust.
And if I have a yellow kid, I will be pissed.
I remember when I was young--okay,younger,--I was with my family driving in the car when my father was asked the most dreaded question in all of parentdom:
"Daddy, who's your favorite?"
Himself being the driver of the
Psch. Yeah right. We were young, but we weren't stupid. The conversation continued as we exerted, with all the logical capacities our sub-14-year old minds could muster, the fallacy of our father's statement. Rebuttal after rebuttal, we tried to ensnare our father in his own words, waiting for the one slip-up, the one loophole that we could exploit . . .
that's when I saw it.
Could it be true? Did mine eyes deceive me? I doubted myself. But there it had been! Yes! I had seen it! There, in the rearview mirror, surely as the stars at night, I had seen my father look me in the eyes and mouth "you are."
For years I believed this. For years I kept that secret near and dear to my heart. Never once mentioning it again with my father, never once gloating to the other children. Being the oldest, I did, after all, possess the birthright--did my siblings really need to know that that was not all I had won from them?
Several months ago this, topic came up again in family conversation. My father replied with the same stock answer, but I knew the truth. Later, in private, I approached him.
"Don't worry, Dad. I still know."
My father furrowed his brow. " . . . Still know what?"
"You know . . . that I'm your favorite kid."
"HA! What? You think--what? HA! Where did you hear that?"
Not the response I was expecting. At all. I recounted the story of years past to my father, who vehemently denied it (a cover-up? maybe). Regardless, I left the conversation confused, once again having to revisit the question of "how can a parent not have a favorite kid?"
Today, as I was eating Starburst, I received my answer.
Some days I like pink, some days I like red. I like them both for different reasons, and on some days I definitely prefer one to the other. But I could never choose a favorite.
Ergo, children are like Starbust.
And if I have a yellow kid, I will be pissed.
1 comment:
isn't weird how parents have absolutely no recollection of a childhood event that you can remember so vividly? sometimes i swear my parents were on vacation while i was growing up and then came back to replace the clones that had fill in for them while they were gone just in time to see me leave home.
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