Wednesday, April 13, 2005

True story, true horror

When I was threeish, I took to calling my dad Robbie. I did this because I was born to be a smartass and because there would be no justice in this world if I did not use my gift.

Dad was not amused.

In the flickering light of the fireplace, he sat me down at his knee. We were a picture out of one of those old-country style Christmas cards that everyone sends out. You know. The ones that depict the quaint, magical Christmas and the happy, simple family. Wholesome bullshit that’s nice to think about but ridiculous to believe exists.

Anyway. I called Dad by his first name and he didn’t like it.

“You will know a lot of Robbies in your life,” he told me. “But you will only have one dad.”

I never called him by his first name again. Because I was the world's smartest three-year-old and because it’s true. He’s the only dad I’ll ever have.

This makes the oh-my-Lord-you-are-exactly-like-my-father-just-26-years-younger-and-not-my-blood-relative-thank-God things that Colin does just a little more terrifying.

2 comments:

Sarah said...

My nephew often calls his parents by their first names. That's such a good little way to make him stop. Might have to try it.

Stace said...

hahahahahaha, YOUR CUTE!!!

 
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