Every memorable event in my life that happened before the spring of 2010 is filed away in my brain with a five-year buffer. My mental calendar from the era before I had a child is ordered in half-decade increments.
When did I graduate college?
“I was done wearing flannel shirts by that time… mid to late 90s?”
Since my son was born he has become a yardstick on which I measure time. Instead of just inches marked off on the door frame, I see months and the corresponding historical events. I look at his growth notches on the wall like a geologist sees the colors of a canyon.
My brother was married the month our son’s adoption was official. June 2010.
February 2011 he started scooting around the coffee table on his way to becoming bipedal.
In addition to tagging my memory with his chronology, I’ve watched the evolution of mankind as he’s inched his way up my leg. His descent from the crib was akin to an early man deciding that a tree wasn’t such a great place to raise a family. Soon after conquering land, he began grunting and sketching crude drawings on the walls. This led to the use of simple tools and more complete sentences and an attempt to overthrow the established rules of the house. He assumed he was smarter than his elders but didn’t yet realize that we control the food and the bath toys.
It’s just a matter of time before I catch him sitting around a plastic round table with his playmates playing Rock Paper Scissors to decide who gets to be Braveheart this time.
“They will never take away our Freedom!”
I can’t wait for him to catch up with the 1960’s human and enter the space race in the backyard. Am I allowed to impart my wisdom onto him or do I have to let him fail in order to achieve global dominance? Does he need to lose a few model Estes rockets because my interference will disrupt the space time continuum? I’d hate to walk back inside after properly staging his rocket engines when he’s not looking to find my image fading in the few physical photos we have on the wall.
And when he actually becomes smarter than his elders I’ll be certain to hide the growth chart from him so he can’t rewrite history. It will be saved for posterity so I can remind him where he came from if his power becomes too great for him to handle.
“Right there. That is when you first inched up to my waistline.”
Hopefully, he will still look up to me as he did then.
If not, I’ll just take away his bath toys.