For at least a few weeks, I had our kids convinced I could hear everything.
It all started after I overheard our son, Lyric, say something a teeny bit rotten from behind his closed bedroom door.
Lyric! I scolded in my best Scary-Dad voice. Don’t say things like that!
Confused, Lyric opened his door.
Daddy, how did you hear that?
Because, I said, Daddy can hear everything.
At first, the charade not only worked but also proved quite useful. It kept both Lyric and his sister, Aria, on their best behavior. But, the deception began to unravel when I started asking Lyric about his school day, and he’d respond: You already know that, Daddy. You heard it.
There’s a time in life when you realize your parents aren’t superheroes. You realize they don’t have special powers or all the answers. And, yes, they can and do make mistakes.
For me, that time came in my teenage years. I rebelled in my own ways. I grew my hair long, pierced my ears and my eyebrow. I took my training from years in marching band, paired it with a drum set and started playing rock shows in bars until the wee hours of the morning. Yes, I was cool. And, best of all? I knew my father wouldn’t approve.
But, here’s the funny thing: My dad, too, is a drummer. He, too, had a rock band. And, I’m sure my grandfather didn’t approve of his hair, either.
Later, after I met and married my wife, Jess, and Lyric and Aria were born, I realized that, although my dad was not a superhero, he certainly had superhero-like powers — none more evident than the ones he used in the years he was a single father. During that time, he showed many examples of strength, love and courage — some so nuanced that I didn’t appreciate them until I had kids of my own.
Sure, there were plenty of the typical childhood memories: Feeding the ducks, riding our bikes down our street and fishing in my dad’s boat. But, of all the memories, the most vivid were the mornings I spent with him at Winchell’s donut shop.
In the year before I started kindergarten, each morning, I rode with my dad to a day care near his office. On the way, we’d stop at Winchell’s.
My feet dangled from the bar stool as I waited for my dad to order — a coffee and glazed donut for him, and a milk carton and something with sprinkles on it for me. We’d sit at the bar, stare out the window and enjoy our breakfast together. After we were done, he’d use a few napkins to brush the crumbs from my face.
I can’t remember what the shop looked like, what we talked about or even if the donuts were good. But, I never will forget that, in those few minutes each morning, I had my dad’s complete attention.
And, he heard everything.
These days, there are mornings when Jess and I feel like we are fumbling through caramel to get the kids into clean clothes, breakfast into their bellies and their curious minds to their respective schools. There are times we feel defeated — chewed up and swallowed by the day even before it really begins.
And there are two of us.
I don’t know how my dad did it. I don’t know how he managed to keep his career on track, his sons bathed, fed and clothed, and the house from falling down around us. I don’t think I’ll ever know fully the sacrifices he made to keep his sons happy.
But, I do know it’s the little things that have stood time’s test. And whether mornings at Winchell’s were designed to be special or merely the path of least resistance, they remain among my favorite memories.
Thanks, Dad, for the donuts.