When I was Malc’s age, parents held Chicken Pox/German Measles/whatever...All of us have memory triggers, little things that are seemingly unrelated but nonetheless remind of us significant events. Here are some of my most meaningful:
I don’t know what you think of when Halloween comes every year, but I think of Hooters. My dad’s group goes to a Pumpkin patch every year. The first time we went, I searched my GPS to locate the closest restaurant, and beebopboo, it spit out Hooters. I laughed and told my fellow stay at home dads the result and an odd silence followed. We looked at each other for a few seconds, and someone uttered, “Well, if it’s the closest place, then we should go.” No one wanting to veto chicken wings and scantily clan waitresses, we piled into our cars and made our way to white trash central. My dad’s group tends to stick out wherever we go, but it was especially noticeable at Hooters. The wait staff had the choice to either spend their time with gross businessmen or our group of fun dads with cute kids. Needless to say, our service was excellent! There are better pumpkin patches that we could go to every year, but when you have a tradition like this, why bother.
Hilton’s motto might as well be: “The Place To Clean Up Bizarre Vomit.” Malcolm and I visited my parents in Bakersfield one weekend, and we came back to Oakland in time to pick up Amy at the Oakland airport. Shortly after picking Amy up, Malcolm threw up all over the place. Anyone who has cleaned up vomit out of the nooks and crannies of a carseat can attest to just how disgusting and futile the exercise is. This specific vomiting episode was especially memorable because my mom had packed Malcolm a sandwich made from pink guava bread. Vomit is gross. Vomited pink guava bread is harrowing. Think of a raw ground beef with the viscosity of egg whites. We spent about a half an hour in the parking lot of the Oakland Airport Hilton cleaning Malcolm and the car, and every time we drive by the Hilton now, I am reminded of that special day.
Daddy said that I don't have to listen to "Come Away With Me" anymore. He also said that he's not really a redhead.
Norah Jones is a talented singer but every time I think of her, I can’t get the image of Amy’s placenta out of my head. (Come to think of it, is it Amy’s placenta or Malcolm’s? I’m not sure.) When we went to the hospital to have Malcolm, I brought our Ipod and a boombox to listen to music while Amy went through labor. Every ten minutes or so, the Ipod would emit a very loud, very annoying screeching sound. Loud screeching sounds did not have the soothing effect that I was trying to give Amy, so she eventually threw the Ipod across the room and called me a very mean name. Desparate to redeem myself and give comfort to my wife, I went to the car for plan B. The only CD we had in the car was Norah Jones, and we listened the whole CD what seemed like 15 times. Now, when I hear Norah Jones, all I can think of is the bizarre aspects of labor: watching Amy poop, looking at a human head coming out of her lady business, and seeing the placenta flopped onto her chest like a chuckwagon steak at the meat counter. Try as I might, we don’t listen to Ms. Jones much anymore.
Anyone out there got any funny triggers?
Tags: parenting
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