I spent Columbus Day reclaiming part of the garage. There is still a lot to do out there, but the Technical Writing Express fits again. Moreover, I think the remaining tasks are much more compartmentalized (and therefore—for me, anyway—more likely to get done).
Several weeks back I brought a bookshelf stereo system home from work, because I didn’t have room for it anymore. I found it again today digging through the mess, sitting right where I left it. I decided today that Aaron ought to have it.
Aaron’s current CD player was Nathan’s, and it still works well enough, but it’s Fisher-Price and meant for truly little folks. Aaron got it when Nathan got a boom box for Christmas. So, when I brought that stereo home from work, I reflexively thought “okay, Aaron can have Nathan’s boom box, and then Nathan can have the stereo.”
I started thinking, though, you know, Aaron gets hand-me-downed to death. Who says he can’t have a better sound system than his older brother? So, after running it by Lea, I set it up in Aaron’s room instead.
He’s thrilled. I remember enjoying this kind of thing even more than a birthday or Christmas, in some ways. There’s something about your mom or your dad doing something nice for you “just because.”
It’s also made me start remembering better these times from my childhood. I have gleaned a negative lesson here and there from my parents—the “I’m not doing that” sort of lesson—and I think I’ve been right. However, during an unexpectedly reflective housework day, I also realized that I could stand to open my mind (and ego) a bit more to how things actually were when I was a boy.
To be sure, my parents’ 1982 divorce was the most significant event of my childhood. Nothing else is even close. It takes an awful lot to eclipse such in a child’s memories, I think. But most of the time when I’ve really looked back on it, I’ve been resentful. Even now, most of 30 years later, it still pisses me off to consider the person my father is and the person my mother was and try to resolve that they couldn’t resolve.
I need to work harder, though, to appreciate how it really was for me, particularly for the first 11 years of my life. How dare I complain when so many have had so much less?
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