I’m starting to worry about my memory.
I see something in the news that I think is funny in an off-hand way and I save the story to my favorites to tell my oldest son and then I remember that he’s not here. I see a funny clip from The Late, Late Show with James Corden or some other comedian and I yell up to my daughter’s room, and I remember that she’s halfway around the globe.
Where did the time go? When did my kids grow up?
Oh, I know my kids are off on their own adventures. My head knows that. My brain knows that. There’s nothing really wrong with my short or long-term memory. My heart just expects them to come home at the end of the day, to come walking through the door for dinner or a quick chat.
My wife and I have instead been focusing on our youngest son. He’s been kind. He’s been putting up with us fine enough, but even he has his limits. He eventually give us one of those looks that says, “not again” or “you guys are losing it.”
“Give me time, give me time,” I say. I tell him that I’m just a dad looking out for his pack. Despite the newness of my situation, I’m sure that I’ll get used to it . . . eventually.
In fact, I think I’m starting to make small strides. My wife called out today and said that our son had sent us a text message. I called back and asked “Who? He’s sitting here right next to me.”
Of course, it wasn’t that son.
I chalked that up as progress. A step forward. A step in the right direction. A first step up the mountain. And yes, of course, we’ll see the two wayward ones soon enough.