Who knew a smudge could mean so much?
My wife, the lovely mother of our adorable 3-year-old boy Gunnar, made a recent request of me. It was not an ambitious one. She wanted me to clean the inside of the windshield of our family car.
She knows I've resisted this, and not because I'm a lazy spouse. She's used to this fact: I'm simply a sappy sports scribe.
There was a winter night two years ago when we visited her parents in Pennsylvania, and she asked to run into Save-A-Lot while her boys - me and my son - waited in the car. Of course, that meant me freeing our tiny tot from the restraints of his car seat and letting him sit on my lap between my belly and the steering wheel while she shopped. I did this gleefully.
At some point, he stood up. He was so tiny his feet could push downward on my thighs and there was still ample room between the top of his head and the roof of the car. He then leaned forward, and his grimy little paws pushed against the clean windshield.
His hand prints have been a fixture on the glass ever since.
It is one of my favorite memories, and one that is relived every time the sunlight clashes with the build-up on the interior of the window, or our car passes beneath a streetlight at night and the markings of his little digits invade my sight line. I clung to the smudge, like the memory would be erased with the swipe of a cloth.
My son turns four years old next month, and his 2015 will conjure up many memories for me. I'll recall the delight on his face as he held up the carrot he thought Rudolph had nibbled early on Christmas morning. I'll remember how he simultaneously seemed so small and grown-up as he strolled down his daycare sidewalk proudly wearing a Mickey Mouse backpack. I'll never forget the visits to the airport to watch the planes land, the trips to the park for slides and swings, the mornings eating cereal and the bedtime book routine.
This past year will also be remembered for the movie "Inside Out," one of Pixar's greatest creations and a film that captured the imagination of my child.
We saw the movie at a theatre, and the DVD release couldn't wait. We purchased the digital copy of the film and watched it over and over and over.
I didn't mind.
I often think about the characters who guide his emotions. I'm sure the five stars of "Inside Out" - Joy, Sadness, Anger, Fear and Disgust - are there. Trust me, he slips in and out of those seamlessly. But I've also thought about Gunnar's "islands," which in the film are the main character's pillars of personality.
That character, Riley, is an 11-year-old girl. Before she reaches this age, personality islands for Family, Honesty, Hockey, Friendship and Goofball have been created. They are who she is.
So, what about Gunnar Joseph McGill? I'd reckon Family and Goofball are two of his five islands. If you've ever seen the way he sprints toward one of his grandparents or have heard the way he says "I love you," to a relative, you wouldn't disagree. If you've ever seen him run into a room without pants and smack his bare bottom with his hands for some inexplicable reason, you wouldn't argue with Goofball, either.
But what about the other three?
The kid can't navigate a day without his blue blanket, so Blanket Island is a must. Our Linus wannabe clutches the blanket often, and if he holds it in front of his mouth, sleep is imminent.
He can't pass a Rite Aid or Target without wanting to stop for Goldfish or a Rice Krispies treat, so Snacks Island is guaranteed. He'll eat quality food, but he always has room for salty crackers or marshmallows.
My guess is Hobby Island is the last piece, which would encompass movies, toys and books. He has also shown a slight musical inclination, which he gets from his mother, and seems to enjoy athletics, which he certainly doesn't get from his momma.
Someday, his newspaper parents hope he'll fall in love with words.
There is so much of his story unwritten. He'll grow taller and bigger and become more independent. He'll learn and evolve and his islands will crumble and make way for new creations.
He'll give me new memories to cherish, too.
One of my favorite moments happened in a hospital room at Thomas Memorial. Gunnar had spent 20 days in the neonatal intensive care unit following his birth, and we were finally at his discharge date.
We were in a private room and our little guy was wailing. I cradled his little five-pound body and started walking back and forth, but it did little to mitigate whatever bothered him.
So, I started to sing. It is a cheesy song of my creation that starts out, "My little Gunny bunny ... he is so very funny." There are only six lines, and I repeated them until the tears ceased.
Occasionally, the song will come to mind.
One evening this fall we were walking across the parking lot outside of the South Charleston public library, and his little hand gripped a few of my fingers.
"My little Gunny bunny ..." I sang. Gunnar, with his sweet voice, reminded me of the origins of the song.
"Dad," he said, "you sang that to me in the hospital."
On windshields or hearts, he has a way of creating new smudges.