One Mississippi.
It’s Tuesday night. Dinner is finished and the dishes are done. There is a little time before bed, so I ask the kids what they would like to do.
“Hide and Seek!”
Hide and Seek always ends with someone crying. I remind the kids of this fact and suggest an alternative that better fits my mood and energy level.
“There’s no such thing as Silent Uno, Dad.”
“But there could be.”
“Hide and Seek! Hide and Seek!”
Two Mississippi.
My nine year old daughter is “It.” I hide in her closet, behind the hamper. Hiding spot level of difficulty: 7.5.
Her closet is filled with clothes and cheap plastic trinkets from school fun fairs and Chuck E. Cheese birthday nightmares. I affectionately call this stuff “future trash.”
It smells like kid in here.
Three Mississippi.
I can hear my daughter on the hunt in the distance, bounding from room to room. What she lacks in stealth, she makes up for with enthusiasm.
Crouching behind the couch, her younger brother is more or less hiding in plain sight. Hiding spot level of difficulty: 1.75.
He is quickly discovered and promptly explodes in protest, “No fair! You cheated!”
My daughter goes with a diversion tactic, “Help me find Dad!”
He pauses.
“I have to pee. Don’t look for him without me.”
Four Mississippi.
My hiding spot provides me with a rare moment of quiet stillness. I reach for my phone…which is still on the countertop downstairs.
Damn.
Five Mississippi.
Light peers through a gap in the bi-folding closet doors that I’ve been meaning to replace for a few (twelve) years. It illuminates a white dress hanging a foot from my face. My daughter wore it as a flower girl in my sister’s wedding. She was three.
It is unclear if she ever understood that the wedding was not for her.
Her soft curls bounced in her face as she danced the night away. She was enchanting, unselfconscious, and falling in love with life.
“Watch me twirl, Daddy!”
Six Mississippi
The dress has seen better days. A safety pinned strap. Beads gone rogue. Faded stains like hieroglyphics, recording the adventures of a princess-school teacher-vet-tea party hostess, who jumps off of (and into) furniture.
And of course, more dancing.
Seven Mississippi
Time felt different then. A day seemed to last a year. But now…
Eight Mississippi
My chest tightens. My stomach sinks.
Life is going by so fast. That little girl, the younger version of my daughter, is gone. Sure, she is still a child and, in many ways, she is the same little girl—she still dances, constantly. But these days will soon be gone as well. Before long, I will have to say goodbye to the nine year old version of my daughter, too.
Nine Mississippi.
Suddenly, the stuff I spend so much time worrying about feels less important. I wonder if the problems, worries and irritations that we take so seriously might be a distraction. Or a hiding place.
But who or what are we hiding from?
Grief.
Our constant, every-day grief over the passage of time. Grief over the temporariness of our lives, and the lives of those we love.
I hide from the grief that my child is…mortal.
Hiding spot level of difficulty: 10.0.
I whisper to myself, “Don’t wish this time away. Don’t miss your life, her life, this life.”
Ten Mississippi.
The bi-folding closet doors open.
My daughter yells, “I found Dad!”
My son bolts into the room shouting, “She cheated!”
Looking at me, my daughter asks, “Dad, are you crying?”
Of course I am, Sweetheart. Hide and seek always ends with someone crying.
—————
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David Clinton
David and his wife live in the western suburbs on Chicago with their two children, who David says “fill my days with laughter, excitement and a significant amount of property damage.”
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I’m seeing mostly (perhaps all) Moms in the comments. Thank you for expressing so well what so many Dads feel. Every second of my daughter singing in the car, on pitch or not, every happy thought she shares, every experience she wants to talk about, and every moment of having her in my life is priceless.
Thank you to Kelly Flanagan for sending me here.
Beautiful and powerful message David! I will be following your growth as a writer and continuing to learn from you! Pat R.
My youngest just turned 34; you are wise, indeed, to cherish these days… (And yes, tears were shed over here as I finished reading this.)
Wonderful words of wisdom. That’s the way life is…..at almost 66 I still wish I could have a “do over” or maybe 2. I will be looking forward to your posts. Marcia
I AM 66, Martha, and wouldn’t that be great!
This is one of the most ridiculous blog posts I have ever read. How dare you label that feeling “grief”! You know nothing of children and grief if all your children are alive. Spare me, please…
I’m sorry for your grief, and the children we have lost. But even the little griefs “count” in someone’s heart… in a real parent’s heart. Don’t try to tell someone of the grief of a child who is anorexic… or drug addicted… or in an abusive relationship (all still living, while the child they once were is truly “dead.” Every family… every parent will have their own griefs to come soon enough and there is no need to belittle the grief of another parent.
Wow, this was so beautifully written. I felt my heart sink as you were waiting to be found imagining myself being in that space reflecting on the time flying with my own children. Sometimes I want a do-over to do better, to hold on tighter. I hide behind the grief as well and the fear of it too as the kids get older - even older than they are now.
Remarkable post. Although we have not yet had the pleasure of children in our lives, the thief of time waits for no man as family ages, friends come and go and relationships adjust to the passage of time. Thanks for using your gift of sensitivity and clever humor to communicate such heartfelt lessons!
When I read this there were tears in my eyes. As I was cleaning my 15 year old daughter’s room for the 5 millionth time I was mumbling to myself. When will she tidy up, when will she care about the organization of her room. As if that had anything to do with the amazing woman that she is becoming. Your words gave me remarkable perspective. She will be 16 in less than 6 weeks and on her bed post I saw a hat that was in the shape of a wolf. She calls it Wolfie and has been used as her “thinking” cap. I can’t get those moments of amazing back but I won’t wish this time away. I will not miss her life, my life, or the life of those that matter to me. Thank you so much for writing this piece.
We must endure the teacher to learn the lesson. Whether that be our child, a coworker, an angry customer/ client, friend or anyone else that crosses our path in this lifetime. Grief is a part of our growth & development. Thank you for your insight. Very well written.
Thanks, David! I never knew how much I’d grieve over my (semi-adult) kids. Over the last year, I’ve experienced profound periods of grief as the rhythm of our family life has changed as the guys have started the process of leaving home. I always celebrated their maturing and growing independence. Now, some days I wish we were back in our cramped bungalow-me slogging through the never-ending days of caring for a two and one year old.
Thank you.Just thank you.
And now I’m crying. Thank you for speaking the truth about grief so powerfully and sweetly. You remind me that in hiding from grief, we hide from joy, too.