I called my parents in the middle of the day today, wanting to remind them about something. My mother answered the phone, her voice full of concern, as I’d just spoken to them yesterday (if I don’t call enough I’m in trouble; if I call too often she thinks something’s wrong). “I just wanted to tell you to watch World Of Dance tonight; Easton’s going to be on it.”
She put my dad on the phone. I was so happy to hear his voice. The number of times I call them and get to speak to my dad alone is likely one in twenty. He told me he’d been reading up on the new car we bought. He rattled off some specs I already knew; it’s likely that I’d told him in the first place.
When I think about Canada, my dad is what I miss the most. I’ve been a daddy’s girl from an early age. (I gravitate towards my father-in-law, too. It’s just in my genes, I suppose). When I think about my childhood, some of my favorite memories are of playing catch on the street with my dad. Tim Hortons trips with my dad. Playing tennis with my dad. I’m thirty-four and I still say, “Hi Daddy” when I first hear his voice.
Today’s phone call didn’t last long; I was staring down a work to-do list that would make the average person go cross-eyed, but it sure felt good to hear my dad’s voice.
I’m not so sure this had a point other than to say that parents are funny, and I constantly wonder what DJ will remember about me the most when he’s my age.