Essays by DAR

What I'll Miss

(First published in Child)

Never again will my first son be twice the age of my second son. And at ages eight and four, they are definitely easier to handle than three years ago, when I first received the prize of Alex, five, and Marshall, one, in the Joint Custody Sweepstakes. Marshall is long out of diapers now; I find I can lick an envelope in peace. Nevertheless it is with decidedly mixed emotions that for the first time I can anticipate a time when I won't weigh more than both of them combined, when they will be -- is it possible? -- self-sufficient.

And so it is altogether fitting that at this historic juncture I treat myself to a bout of pre-nostalgia. Never heard of pre-nostalgia? That's because I just made it up -- though there probably should be a word for it in German, like schadenfreude or weltschmerz. "Prenalgia," perhaps? Or "prostalge?" In any case, pre-nostalgia, the indulgent perogative of parents and other lovers, is officially defined in my mind as the act of missing something before it is gone. After all, why relegate nostalgia to some uncertain future date when the to-be-longed-for something is passed and gone? Doesn't it make more sense to savor it now, while the something is still bright and shiny in your sight?

Here, then, is the short list of What I'll Miss when they're, dare I say, teens...


- them being so small they trip on a horseshoe printed in the sand; not the horseshoe itself, just the print

- my pretending to be searching high and low for them, and seeing their hands clasped together in excitement beneath the piano

- them being able, with no wasted forethought or appreciable loss of speed, to run under the branches of a crab apple tree; but not being able to reach the kitchen door to come inside

- my waking them in the middle of the night to give them cough medicine, and they craning their necks for the spoon rather than reaching out their hands to take it themselves

- them being psychically, morally, and spiritually unable to open a birthday present without leaving the wrapping paper in thirty pieces

- them getting in my side of the car and scaling the seats with their book bags and lunchboxes like an overland trek in Nepal

- my being asked to drop them off half a block away so they can run all the way home

- them saying "Oh thank you, Dad! Thanks a lot!" when I give them something as valuable as an icicle

- my picking up the sleepy weight of them after a long car ride home, the warm heft of them through the dark night air

- them exclaiming with astonishment each time they find a McDonald's french fry over two inches long

- tossing them in the air!

- their waists being so small that I get one of their belts mixed up with the golden retriever's collar

- having it take them three full minutes to clear the stuff off their beds so they can crawl inside, without even getting around to removing the pile of folded laundry that sits all night at the foot of their beds and doesn't get knocked off

- having them climb through my legs while I'm doing yoga

- having my meditation be interrupted by their faces two inches away, complete with oversized sunglasses and Oreo crumbs (and having such a vision add to my meditation)

- them being so young that when their friends spend the night in slumber bags on the floor, the friends are jealous if I don't kiss them goodnight, too


And finally this, that seems to capture the essence of what it will have been like, in that magic long ago when they were the roustabout children and I their roustabout Dad:

- neither of them being able to throw a ball that the other could catch, but my being able to catch both of theirs.