On my only son’s eighteenth birthday, I presented him with a homemade book titled The Harry Chronicles. It was nothing fancy. Typed pages glued into blank eight-by-five-inch journal I picked up at the local bookstore when Harry was a year old. At the urging of my friend Debbie, I bought it to write down all the funny things he, like all kids, would say growing up.
I recorded a decade of “Harry-isms.” There was “In,” a one-year-old’s one-word tale about the flushed disappearance of a red Matchbox Ferrari. And this insight from age eleven: “If you put wet clothes on top of dry clothes, the wet clothes don’t dry and the dry clothes get wet.” But instead of chronicling stories or sayings as they occurred, I just scribbled notes on the closest scrap of paper and shoved it into the blank book stashed in my nightstand drawer. “I’ll write it up later,” I told myself each time.
Only later didn’t come until a few weeks before the March birthday that launched my son into official, voter-status adulthood. I spent the evenings of a ski vacation at my computer reconstructing almost all of my 136 scrawled snippets of the unforgettable. I say “almost all” for two reasons.
First, several of the scribbles were frustratingly illegible. My script handwriting sucks, and even now I spend more time than I like deciphering my note taking. Then there were the dozen or so scrap writings I chose not to include. These were memories of moments more tender than funny. Private stories I had yet to tell Harry about. So I put them back in the envelope marked “Save.”
Two years ago, when Harry turned twenty-one, I shared the personal stories with him. He didn’t remember most of them. Like the time he was two and asked me how I knew he was a boy. I confessed there were many times I didn’t know what the hell to say or how to react. And I admitted I had made more than my fair share of mistakes trying to master good mothering. “Like telling me your fur coat was made from road kill?” he asked, with a smile that hinted at comedic genius. (Yeah, that time, too.)
With Harry’s permission, the sequestered stories are now being told in a different book, titled My Son Wears Heels: One Mom’s Journey from Clueless to Kickass. But I promise to sprinkle a few funnies from The Harry Chronicles here in my blog while I continue birthing my most recent labor of love.
In the meantime, kids will continue to say funny stuff. Send me your favorite anecdote in the Comments section below, and I’ll choose a few for future posting. And if you’re a parent, whether or not you share a story here, I hope you’re writing that stuff down.
What an incredible gift for Harry and your soon to be readers that you collected these moments in time. Maybe it’s not too late to start now?!
Thanks for taking the time to comment, Linda! I’m sure it’s never too late to recall a gem or two. Please share when you do.
I love this! When my kids were little, I would attempt to amuse them by speaking in (really bad) foreign accents. Especially while teaching them to play “go fish”. When I was in my British mood, I would often say, “Oh, bloody hell!” My accent must have been truly awful, because what Evan heard, and then repeated often, was “my bloody hand!”
Very funny! I think I would love your British mood, Carol. Cheers!
This was something very special you thought of. Wish I had of done something like this. I did save a lot of their baby teeth, but between 3 I believe they might have got mixed up along the way, hehe!
A little treasure box of a kid’s baby things is always fun to have, Cindy. They will love the teeth later on. But, as other Tooth Fairies know, you might have to explain a bit about the sorting. 🙂
I absolutely love what you’re doing. My youngest child, a 10-yr-old gender creative boy, is who I blog and write about, but I also have been keeping things all 3 kids have said written down. I have to admit the most amusing ones have come from my youngest GC son. A few faves: 1.) Conversations with my 7-year-old: “You know that big book the Statue of Liberty is holding? I wonder if it’s a copy of Lady and the Tramp.” 2.) My two-year-old son has taken to saying, “I’m sorry, m’lady,” every time he bumps into the dog. 3.) My two-year-old son has a cup of pencils he carries with him everywhere. He refers to them collectively as “The Johnsons.”
Oh, Martie! Those comments you’ve shared have made my weekend. I laughed out loud at Lady and the Tramp. Hilarious. And I wonder where he heard, “I’m sorry, m’lady.” Thank you, thank you. For these little stories, your HuffPo blog pieces, and for the love, too. Jxo