I'm entering a dangerous time as a parent.
I've got a big problem brewing with my older son who is almost four and a half. The problem is his memory. It's too good.
The kid remembers everything. Try this game out: name all the Christmas gifts you got this year and who gave them to you. It was just two weeks ago. Can you do it? I don't think I can. I got some sweet sweatpants that I've worn every day so far. A lot of people got me beer. I'm not trying to be ungrateful, I just can't remember. I'm sure all the beer has nothing to do with it.
My son though - he knows every single present and exactly who gave it to him. And how about this? If you show him every present he got last Christmas he'll tell you who gave him each one of those as well.
Meanwhile when I'm in our bathroom I can't remember which colour-coded microfiber cloth I'm supposed to use to clean my little boys' adorable faces and which I'm supposed to use to clean beard hair out of the drain. And I have no clue what I got for Christmas last year. I also couldn't begin to tell you what presents I bought for my children last year. Beer maybe? No wait, that's what I got. Probably.
It's not just presents that my son remembers either. He randomly recalls all kinds of crazy little things out of the blue. The other day I was driving with him towards the Lions I Gate Bridge and he asked if we were going to Point Roberts. We haven't been to Point Roberts in a year and a half. We haven't talked about Point Roberts for a year or more. The last time we were there, he was two years old and just learning how to sleep in a big boy bed. And by "learning," I mean we spent three hours throwing his crib-liberated, giggly butt back into bed every 2.5 seconds.
That seems like an eternity ago. He's four now and when I woke him up in his big boy bed a few days ago he rolled over and said he wanted to sleep in because he had a big day coming up.
A big day!? Kid, you're four! What have you got coming up, a big Power Point presentation on what situations are best enhanced by the use of the word fart?
"As we come to this next slide you'll see the family gathered around a table at a fine dining restaurant. Notice the look of shock on grandmother's face, the anger flashing in mother's eyes and, of course, my father failing to stifle a laugh. Of course this will need to be tested with further research. As we move on to the next slide let us not forget - fart!"
Or maybe he just needed to rest up that big brain of his so he can remember random tidbits from Olympic events he watched almost a year ago. Favourite Dufour-Lapointe sister? Justine, obvi.
Now I'm not claiming my kid is some kind of boy genius. Far from it. I don't think he's even decided on a college major yet. As far as I can tell most of the kids my boy hangs out with have pretty remarkable memories too. And here's why this is such a problem: those memories are starting to stick.
Up until this point I've cruised along knowing that I could potentially have a little bit too much wassail and then vomit on a Christmas tree and my kids might be horrified but they would, eventually, forget about it. This is, of course, a hypothetical.
But now my son's memories are lasting longer and longer and I'm afraid some of them might be in there for good.
We had quite an eventful holiday this year and maybe some of those memories will last forever. That'd be great if he remembers the day we shared a hot chocolate in a cozy café after a trip to Maplewood Flats where we happened upon a small herd of deer munching on leaves just a few feet off of our trail. That's a magical childhood.
What was not so magical for my son was the New Year's Eve meal we had a few days later. My wife surprised me with a little treat and I did a happy dance as I unwrapped a whole lobster and got ready to pitch it into a pot of boiling water. My son was not so happy.
"You can't cook that!" he said, tears welling in his eyes as he watched me dance with the barely dead, fully intact animal.
"You can't eat that!" he said as he watched my cracker hover over the first steaming claw.
"Gross," he said as I snapped the back and shoved half a tail in my mouth and that green lobster goo scattered across the table.
If that memory sticks I can just envision my vegan, all-organic son lying on a psychiatrist's couch on some Mars colony 25 years from now, spilling the story of the day he realized his father was a barbarian. Or, worse yet, it could end up as just one more anecdote in his tell-all memoir: My Father: Earth Killer.
Dangerous times indeed. Well son, here's one thing you can remember: if you end up writing that book, I'll take back all the Christmas presents I ever gave you. I might need a little help picking them out though.
