06: 08:35.
I turned 32 years old last week.
Externally, it had the hallmarks of an unremarkable adult birthday. I woke up early in a feeble attempt to start on schedule, I went to work, I continued my recovery from a now-weeklong illness — it’s not COVID — and I picked up dinner from Provisions on the way home before we ran through our evening routine. Even the birthday pie was a last-second slice of banana cream.
It still felt special to me: It was my first birthday as a father. Parenting with T has changed time and perspective in my life. Raising W is my greatest challenge as I see genetics, focus, behavior, health, and an affinity for onesie tank-tops play out in the life of another human being I’m entirely responsible for.
W is less than a year old and will remember exactly none of this. That’s fine by me. Just like recent outings to Chicago, Costco, and an Iowa Cubs game will be blurs in his rapidly developing brain, the details now belong to my memory. As a new dad, it’s an unbelievable opportunity to shape his experiences and hold on to his laughs, cries, falls, and firsts until he is ready to carry them himself.
It’s a duty that didn’t really hit me until this month. Because I no longer have anyone to fill in those blanks for me.
The earliest memories of my birthdays come from my mom setting an alarm and making breakfast. My parents separated when I was two or three, so she used that single mom strength to make sure I had some of my favorites on the table at the time I entered the world: 08:35.
The birthdays I was home for growing up had blueberry pancakes or quiche Lorraine or an oversized homemade version of the McGriddle, all served at 8:35 a.m. If I was visiting Texas family in the summer, I knew the phone would ring at 8:35 on the dot. Once I left for college, it turned into a text or emailed card, always at the same time. The tradition became a unique touch in what was already a special relationship – the only child of a single mom – and she maintained it and all my other childhood memories until she passed in 2018.
The family members in my life over the last three years have done their best to keep me in mind, including my Texas family. But my dad’s health and memory and our distance means details often get lost in translation. I don’t expect or want anyone to fit the narrator or historian role in my life. I just feel added importance to be present for my children, and to be so interested in their lives that I’m ready to fill in the gaps that may otherwise float away.
At 8:35 a.m. on the birthdays since, I miss that call and I miss my mom, but isn’t that memory the point? What a gift to make your child or anyone else feel so important and loved that they remember a specific moment (or time) for the rest of their lives. It’s a connection I’ll carry with me, and it’s a feeling I want to pass along to W in our own way.
So, even if the minutiae like pie or party décor don’t matter, and W rolls his eyes at his talkative dad and eye-rolling mom, I’m feel fortunate to have the life and family I want to make those memories with.
