This morning, for some reason, I was thinking about when my dad had his motorcycle accident when I was 10. I thought of him being pretty old at that time, but he was only 31. Then there was the time that he put the Nolan Ryan beating on Robin Ventura picture from the paper on my door. He wrote, “Don’t mess with old men!” on the front of it. He was 37. He was my age. I don’t feel old most days. At least, I don’t feel as old as he seemed to me at the time. Time is weird.
This morning, on our way to the car, Henry saw a frog hopping down across the yard and into the driveway. He followed it as I said, “Ok, it’s time to go. Enough with the frog! Come on!” After I said that, I felt awful. He’s curious. He wants to learn and I’m rushing him because I don’t want to be late for work. It’s a terrible feeling. I don’t really want to be that dad. At the same time, I have to be at work by a certain time. I’ve got to come up with new ways to express that though instead of being exasperated.
When I dropped him off at school, I started to have a mini panic attack. My eyes teared up. My breath was short. I just wanted to take him back and jump in the car for an adventure. I feel like I don’t do enough.
Then I remembered yesterday. On the way to school, he asked me about the Capitol. He said we had fun naming all the “governments.” Then he said that the comic book store was our secret place. He sings along to Decemberists and The Smiths. He has a wonderful imagination. So maybe I am doing something right.