In the Moment – Daddy's Home

My dad was never one to ooze over his four children in our youth like my mother. There was not a day that went by that mom didn’t convey, both verbally and demonstratively, how special we were. From the tips of our little button noses to our club feet, in her eyes, we were perfection. For my dad, his admiration came in subtle, quiet expressions – a look in his eye, a smile of pride, a nod or a wink.

Recently, in one of our evening conversations as I fed him dinner, I asked what he remembered about his children when we were young. I have my memories of who the good child was. I was curious to see if his jived with mine.

“Dad, what was Dave like when he was small,” I asked, figuring I’d start with the eldest and work my way down.

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he paused for a moment as he soaked in the image of his first born son. Because of his birth placement, David had the lofty responsibility of being the leader to the Madden offspring. It was his destiny to live an exemplary life for the rest of us to follow and a role he took to heart.

“He is such a good boy,” he began. “He is a sweet, kind soul. Always a joy and beautiful baby too.”

Yes, I agree, I thought.

“How about Tim?”

“Tim amazes me. He is such a good boy.”

Hmm. That’s not the way I remember it, but ok.

Tim and I are 20 months apart in age and as children we looked like identical twins. But while I behaved, Tim was a rascal always getting into mischief and doing the opposite of what he was told to do. My memory is of my parents always scolding him.

“And Michael?”

Remembering the tiny baby with cobalt blue eyes, waves of snow white curls and a dimple in his cheek in the exact location my dad sported one, he reminisced, “Michael was always quiet, but is a good boy.”

Michael was that surprise child for my parents in their forties. By far, the most beautiful of the bunch and the baby everyone wanted to protect long into his adult years, even when his choices became questionable in the eyes of social acceptability. I was especially happy to hear my father had only good memories of his baby boy.

Getting through this long exhaustive list of testosterone-loaded siblings, I was sure the best was being saved for last. After all, I was she only girl. His rose among the thorns who was not only sweet, but perfect. My mother always said so.

“How about me?” I asked, waiting for my accolades.

“You? Oh you were very busy.”

Busy? What the hell does that mean?

“And sneaky.”

Wait a minute! What about kind, loving and giving?

Leaning over to kiss him goodnight, I felt a pang of resentment. Ok, perhaps my life has always been in perpetual motion and, yes, I did sneak quarters from his dresser drawer to go buy a candy bar or two, but come on! I was the child who took care of all life’s little messes, including diapers. How come I’m not good. Then, I witnessed a discussion between Jenni (my number two) and her grandfather.

“Grandpa what was mom like when she was a little girl?” she asked, sitting on the edge of his chair, getting right up to his face so he could hear her.

Standing from behind, I could see his body immediately begin to relax as his mind wandered to his only daughter – the one child who closely resembled him both physically and in temperament.

“She is such a good girl,” he proudly stated. “Never a bother.”

“So, she was a good girl?”

“The best.”

Hearing this immediately brought me to tears. Instinctively, I always knew this is how he felt about me. I could see it every time he smiled when I walked into the room, but being a man of little words, expressions from the heart to the intended were difficult to convey.

As Jenni and I giggled over the compliment, it dawned on me that he only spoke about his children in the present. Not that “she was a good girl,” but “she is a good girl.” At ninety-five, my dad seems to hang onto the “now” of his days. He has his memories, those gentle pages of his past that flutter through his mind when completely alone, but he wants his world to be in the present with the people he loves most.

When God gave me the task of caring for him, he gave me one of the greatest gifts I’ll ever know. To spend the “now” of a loved one’s final days is not only a blessing but a treasure. It has taught me compassion and the beautiful reward of living in the moment. For when it comes right down to it, that is all we truly ever have – the here and now. It must be enjoyed.