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Last Moments
RJ Licata, East Syracuse, NY
From Dads Behaving DADLY 2: 72 More Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2015 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission. By Hogan Hilling and Al Watts.
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I woke up startled. Joey, my four-year-old son, has been known to walk into our bedroom in the middle of the night. Usually, it is because he wakes up and realizes he is alone in his room. He and I do not typically say anything to each other when I hear his feet pitter-patter on our hardwood floor. I just reach one arm over the side of the bed, and he latches on, his favorite blanket in tow. Then, I lift him up into the bed with us. My bed real estate usually suffers some, but I do not mind because it is nice to have him there with us.
This most recent time was different, though. I did not hear him walk in. I must have unconsciously felt his stare, because at around midnight I slowly opened my eyes, and his face was eight inches away from mine, expressionless. After my heart re-started, I went about our usual routine and hoisted him up into our bed between my wife, Dani, and myself.
Aside from still being slightly terrified by his creepy entrance (how long was he watching me? 30 seconds? Three minutes? Longer?), things settled down pretty quickly, and we both started to go back to sleep. That is when the real show began.
We were visited by a thunderstorm, which parked itself directly over our house and performed what sounded like the grand finale of a fireworks show. The flash from the lightning lit our house with enough glow to read by, and the thunder followed almost immediately after. The house shook, rattling a picture off the dining room wall.
Joey was not crying, but he did look at me and timidly asked if we were going to have to get a new house when the storm destroyed ours. I told him no, we would not need another house because the storm was likely going to destroy us, as well. No, I am joking. I told him we, and our house would be just fine.
After ten minutes or so the storm moved on, content to terrorize other neighborhoods. Our three-year-old Gianna, ever her father’s daughter, slept through the entire thing just like I used to do as a kid.
Now, by itself, this thunderstorm story is not much to talk about, but it did trigger a nostalgic thought.
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When I was young, say in the 8-12-year-old range, my friends and I would get together for backyard football games, kickball in the street, or nightly hide-and-seek contests. We spent an entire childhood worth of summers doing these things, and then, one day, we reported home for dinner, or curfew (I don’t remember which), and that was it. We never played again. I am not sure which day it was, or why that day became our last. I do not even remember details of that day or game. All I know is I have not played a neighborhood kickball game in close to twenty years.
When that thought first struck me, it made me consider all the other “lasts” that just kind of happen, completely unbeknownst to us at the time. I am not talking so much about the big things; those “lasts” tend to leave an impression on us, often because we know it is going to be the last time it happens, like our last high-school football game or the last time we saw our favorite big-leaguer play before he retired.
I began to wonder about the smaller events, the ones that so critically shape our lives before quietly becoming part of our past. Why don’t those “lasts” leave a greater impact on us? Why can’t I remember the last time we walked home from the sandlot, under the buzzing glow of the streetlights, with grass stains on our knees and tears in our shirts? What was it that finally made us no longer get together for a summer night of hide-and-seek?
Lasts are often sad, but there is something extra sad about the fact that you do not always know they are coming and sometimes you do not remember them at all.
As I mentioned, Joey has a habit of climbing into our bed in the middle of the night. We know, eventually, he will stop. He is not always going to need us in the middle of the night. One night he will come in, and the next time he won’t. And he never will again after that.
We won’t know it is going to be the last time when it happens. We won’t wake up the next morning aware that we will never share our bed with him again.
Thunderstorm or not, he will no longer creep into our room in the middle of the night. He won’t bring his favorite blanket to my bedside, waiting for my arm to reach down and pull him up. There won’t be any announcement. There will be no big farewell tour.
One morning we will wake up to a childless bed, and our bed will stay that way for all the mornings to follow.
Just one of many last moments, quietly shaping our lives.
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RJ Licatais the author of Lessons for Joey: 100 Things I Can’t Wait to Teach My Son. You can read more of his writing at www.LessonsandLove.com, where he examines the teachable moments in everyday life. RJ lives in East Syracuse, New York with his wife, Danielle, and their three children, Joey, Gianna and Gabrielle.
Hogan Hilling is a nationally recognized and OPRAH approved author of 12 published books. Hilling has appeared on Oprah. He is the creator of the DADLY book series and the “#WeLoveDads” and “#WeLoveMoms” Campaigns, which he will launch in early 2018. He is also the owner of Dad Marketing, a first of its kind consultation firm on how to market to dads. He is also the founder of United We Parent. Hilling is also the author of the DADLY book series and first of its kind books. The first book is about marketing to dads “DADLY Dollar$” and two coffee table books that feature dads and moms. “DADLY Dads: Parents of the 21st Century” and “Amazing Moms: Parents of the 21st Century.” Hilling is the father of three children and lives in southern California.
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Originally published in Dads Behaving DADLY 2: 72 More Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2015 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission.
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