The First Ten Years, Matthew Kennedy, Books, Real Stories

Memory. We all spend a large part of our lives there. It is the glue that holds us together, the thing that separates us from the animals. My mother maintains, however, that there isn’t much setting us Kennedy boys apart from the animals, except maybe napkins.

At this point in my life, I consider myself lucky enough to have realized a couple of things. First, once you hit 35, life gets sneaky. It speeds up. Second, there is no such thing as time, only memory. Kids help with this realization. They push us back into our own memories and the impact forces us to view our life and life in general with a new perspective. Just like jumping into that first big pond, without the threat of lice, an ever present threat to a child of the 70s. Now kids have to worry about West Nile Virus, so I guess lice aren’t so bad.

But the path is rough. It isn’t always “life affirming” or fun.

We’ve all been taken hostage by “that Parent.” Not hostage really, that implies someone could pay a ransom for your release. There is no such luck with that Parent. They go on and on.

We all know the story. “Jimmy is so smart. He was offered a scholarship to Oxford. And he’s only two.” The siege is absolute, there is no mercy. That “Parent” asks if your child “still wears that special football helmet?” Funny, they don’t remember you don’t have any children. It doesn’t matter, that “Parent” is already in a lather about 15 year old Alllleeexxaaanndrrraaa. “You know, she charts interstellar maps for NASA.” Now you begin to lose feelings in your lower extremities.

Of course, their children would be happy to tutor your knuckle dragging mouth breather when and if their schedule permits. Thanks anyway. I’ll wait until I have children you think.

What’s more amazing than the unending catalogue of stories is the complete inability to make even one story remotely interesting or engaging. How is that possible? You expect at least one, but they are on automatic.

You start to pull your hair out, it’s the only rational response.

Things changed when I had kids. I understood this Parent was on to something, stories are important. They bring us back to who we were and what we are. The actors in the story are unimportant. It’s that connection to some part of your own history that drives the stories we tell and hear.

What does it all mean? It’s simple really. I’m sure no one wants to hear about kids, even my kids. But, I am sure everybody wants to remember. Remember who they were and how they got here. Kids do that for us, whether you are a parent or not. Hearing about the ridiculous things kids do help us remember the things we did, to touch just for a moment who we were, who we are. It connects with some part of our life long buried.

Children are the reporters from the front line. We just have to be careful enough to hear what they have to say. Sometimes it’s obvious, like how to avoid getting hit in the groin with a piñata bat at a birthday party. Sometimes it’s a chance to reconnect with something you forgot long ago. Sometimes it reminds you that you need to call someone just to relive that memory.

What you’ll find inside are some excerpts from my book, The First Ten Years, Excerpts from a Father’s Life. Some of it is fun, other parts are about our connectedness to each other, or something like that. Really, it’s about my complete and utter confusion as to why in God’s name did “They” ever let me take a child home from the hospital? Without directions? Twice!