Bobtats, Pancakes, and the Smell of Home

Have you ever been analyzing an aspect of your childhood and been abruptly blindsided by how much of an undeserving little shit you are? Last night, my boyfriend was making fun of a stuffed doll I have had since I was practically a zygote, and I got defensive and snapped that she is my Velveteen Rabbit. To my astonishment, he had no idea what I was talking about, so I had to paraphrase Margery Williams' book, all the while trying to figure out how he didn't know one of the most iconic children's stories of the last century. 

From here, the conversation meandered to the point where I was explaining how for a large portion of my childhood (and a decent way into adolescence, thanks to a little brother) my dad would come home from work every day and read a bedtime story. He would do the voices, and show us the pictures, and make us laugh until we were all wound up again. It was a staple of my life, my dad reading us stories, something I didn't even think about or really notice until I grew up and realized several different things at once. 

First, my dad worked at a paper mill. My mom didn't work when we were kids so she could actually raise us to be decent people, so he was the only source of income for our family. He worked very, very hard, most often 12-16 hours a day, leaving so early in the morning he would be gone when I woke up for school. When you're used to something as a kid, it seems totally normally, but looking back I realize how many times we had dinner without him. He must have been so unbelievably tired every night, but he read to us anyway. Second, he was never tired or angry or indifferent when he was spending time with us. He treated these fairly common occurrences like they were something special, and they BECAME something special. He must have WANTED to spend time with us, to have something that made him not just our father, but our dad. This same man, to this day, still wakes up every Sunday to make us pancakes when we're visiting, just like he did when we were growing up. He checks over the things in my car that I don't even know how to spell, but he knows how to fix. 

Anyway, as I was telling my boyfriend about this aspect of growing up, my dad reading to me, I realized I was tearing up. This is not a very common occurrence for me, so I decided to explore this highly uncomfortable feeling. I found myself recalling a vast number of seemingly mundane experiences that have stayed with me: the feeling of running home from the bus to see my mom standing in the kitchen, the smell of dinner wafting in the air, her asking me about my day and for some reason caring about my boring life; her putting one of her bras on my brother's head when he was just a toddler, calling him a "bobtat" (he loved this game); my dad teaching me how to play gin rummy; huddling in the basement, clutching mugs of cocoa around   a cast-iron stove with a crackling belly as Nat King Cole sang about peace and love from the record player; my mom making our Halloween costumes from scratch; the smell of summer nights, the last vestiges of sun blooming on the horizon, mom standing on the porch and yelling for us to come inside and get in the damn bathtub. 

Okay, I'm gonna be honest here: my childhood was better than yours. But I can say, without hesitation, that it only was so because I had two parents who give new meaning to the term "unconditional love". They sacrificed everything they wanted, everything of themselves, to make sure I became the person I am today. I get so frightened when I see all of the children now who quite obviously don't have that; the mom's and dad's who spend a fair portion of their week planning when they can get away next. And I get it, I do. I have no kids, I'm not married, and I'm always exhausted at the end of the day. Will I be a good enough mom to put that all behind me, make my family dinner, and read to my kids every night? I really don't know. It seems I still have a lot to learn from my parents.....