As kids morph into adults, sometimes both the kids and the parents miss it, it happens so fast. Just ask my dad. Or me, for that matter.
Standing in my garage with Dad, as he tells me the proper way to operate our water softener that never came with directions and was free—with the purchase of a house in 2004—I realize that I am completely engrossed in his instruction; listening intently, and committing his words to memory for later “download.”
Twenty-five years ago, I might have been listening, but something else would have been in my head playing at the same time so it would have sounded like, “Fill the water softener with ‘Footloose,’ set the clock on the panel so it will cycle through one Kevin Bacon. Don’t fill it with more than one bag or it will MTV all over the floor and then you’ll have a lot of videos to mop up.”
You can see why Dad asked me what the hell I was doing a lot when I tried to follow instructions. He tried to be patient, but didn’t he know that I was either dancing or singing or even writing in my head at any given moment? I got the finer points. You know, don’t stick a fork into the toaster to retrieve the stuck English muffin. Don’t bring the radio into the shower with you, no matter how long the extension cord is; important stuff like that, that I was able to pass down to my kids who I know were only half listening, when I told them to collect all the trash from the house, and then bring it from the garage to the curb for garbage day. It made it as far as the garage, where the water softener lived.
As I absorbed all of the information Dad was giving me, I thought to myself, “He is still teaching me. I’m 43 years old and he is still teaching me.” I was grateful that he was. I was grateful that he has the life experience to teach me something that turned out to to be very simple, but I didn’t know. What I was really grateful for was that he still wanted to teach me, even when sometimes, I know I must have seemed almost unteachable 25 years ago. Dads don’t give up, thankfully, or my water softener would still be unplugged, unused and mocking me every time I chucked something into the recycling.
It makes me fast forward to my kids’ future when they are 46 and 40. I hope I can teach them something then. How to change the oil on the hover car … how not to overcook the steaks on the hover barbecue. (Hopefully, all of our possessions won’t be of the “hover” variety, but you get the idea. It’s the future.)
Anyway, after The Husband dumped a 40-pound bag of salt into the softener and I plugged it in and set the clock, I was rewarded with the gurgling sounds of success. And not a single video to mop up. Thanks, Dad … I love you.
Kelly Sinon
