The Things That Count

“1-2-3…”

“Third down and seven, ball on the Georgia 48…”

“4-5…”

“First down after the nine-yard run…”

“6-7-8-9…”

“The offensive line had a real strong push on that last run…”

When you become a parent, those who have walked that path before are full of advice. I try to listen to their suggestions even when it seems what they offer has been shared by others to the point that it all sometimes seems to mean less that it really does and even at times when I am stressed to the point of not really wanting to listen to anything.

“Soak in every moment.”

“They grow up way too fast.”

“Enjoy it while you can.”

“You’ll miss these moments”

“10-11-12-13…”

It was right around the time when her sweet voice spoke the number thirteen that it dawned on me I was missing out on a moment. It was a Saturday afternoon. For a just a few minutes I was watching a college football game, engrossed in the play-calling, the run-block assignments, the defensive scheme, the often inane announcing. I don’t often intently watch football like this anymore, so, for a short time I was lost again in a bit of self-indulgence. It was that voice though along with the progression of numbers that turned my attention away from the game on the giant glowing box on the other side of the room.

“14-15-16-17-18…”

I have heard her count numerous times before. Sometimes when we are in the car riding somewhere one of us is counting. Sometimes she asks me to count. Other times she wants me to listen so I can hear her count. When she was first learning to count, she sometimes would miss a number now and then or would reverse the order of certain numbers. As she has practiced and become more engaged with learning the numbers began to fall in place and in the correct order. Still, somehow this time felt different.

“19-20-21-22-23…”

Sometime during the afternoon she rediscovered a sheet of temporary tattoos. She became determined that she would use the tattoos on her hand. For those unaware of temporary tattoos most of them work when you cut them out, wet your skin then hold the cut-out tattoo impression against your skin for around thirty seconds. Of course thirty seconds passes by best when someone counts out loud from one to thirty. On this Saturday, this is why she was standing in our living room counting.

“24-25-26-27…”

She stood with her back toward me as the countdown neared a conclusion. Her hand rested in her mom’s hand as they had partnered to accomplish this task. As the audio from the television faded in the background I focused even more on this moment on an average Saturday afternoon trying to drink it all up while it lasted.

“28-29-30”

When the last number from her lips sounded, she excitedly pulled her hand from her mom’s hand to see how well the tattoo process had gone. She quickly showed her mom the new ink imprint. She then danced over to me hurriedly shoved her hand in my direction so that I could eyeball the artistry then scurried back to her mom so that this process could happen again.

I leaned back in my chair. I looked at the spectrum of colors emanating from the television set although it all just seemed like a blur. I would soon enough focus on the game. I would once again question the play-calling, I would revel in pride when my team put points on the board. I would fret when things on the field would not go my way. I would do all these things as if what I did mattered in the game’s outcome. And, in a different time when I was a different man, such things would count much more than they do now or than they ever should. Now, though, other things count.

“1-2-3…”