Regrets are just memories that won't fade away. They also come with, unfortunately, better illustrations — more vivid, more unforgettable. This wreckage of regrets have a way of remaining frozen in time. For some of us, they remain frozen on videotape, too, Jerry Davich writes.
Jerry Davich
Jerry’s career began in 1995 as a political cartoonist/columnist with The Times of NWI, writing thousands of columns and stories through narrative storytelling, or shining a light on society’s darkest corners, or provoking unpopular conversations.
It was an innocent act of thievery, prompted by a longing for her daddy.
My daughter was a toddler who didn't want to wave goodbye again as I was leaving for another night on the town. I was searching for what I thought was missing in my early years as a young parent. Unfortunately, that search didn't always include my little girl, Ashley.
This time, though, she had a plan. She found my car keys and she hid them, figuring it would stop me from leaving.
Silly girl, huh?
It was an innocent act of thievery, prompted by a longing for her daddy. The young girl found her father's car keys and she hid them, figuring it would stop him from leaving. Silly girl.
At that time, more than 30 years ago, I didn’t know my daughter was the culprit who swiped my keys. I thought I simply misplaced them. I was running late and getting angry. Back then, those keys helped me escape my own home. Life was passing me by, I figured.
Out of desperation, I angrily grabbed another set of car keys and stormed out of the house, not thinking twice about the two young children I left behind. It was years later when I realized my daughter's act of larceny was merely an innocent attempt to keep her daddy home.
Silly girl.
I first wrote about this experience 20 years ago. My daughter, who turns 38 next month, remembers it well. It’s become a running joke in our family, though a poignant one for me. It's not that I didn't play with my daughter and her older brother, or hug them, or tend to their needs. I did. Just not nearly enough.
Jerry Davich's grandson, Landon, and his great-nephew Elliot play by the Christmas Tree on New Year's Eve as the clock counts down to midnight.
Fast forward to last week, on New Year’s Eve, when my family got together to count down the end of 2022, which was an emotionally challenging year for all of us. My 4-year-old grandson was there, playing with my 3-year-old great-nephew. They ran around for hours laughing, and playing pretend, and shoving each other.
The two boys played with my wife, Karen, who chased them around the living room as they squealed in delight. She gave the boys her total attention for quite a while, making up imaginative games they loved. Occasionally she would check her phone as the night got closer to midnight. She wanted to check in with her own two children, ages 23 and 21, who celebrated the big night in faraway cities.
At some point, out of nowhere, my wife lost her phone. Poof. Gone. She looked everywhere. Under the Christmas tree. Inside discarded wrapping paper. In her purse. Coat pockets. Corners of the house. Nothing. No phone to be found.
One second she had it, the next second it was gone. She was getting flustered, blaming herself for losing her own phone. Especially at such an important moment, the stroke of midnight, 2023. She wanted to take photos and videos of our celebration.
I helped her look for it. It seemingly disappeared. We mentioned it to other family members. They had no idea where it could be. Only one person did.
Jerry Davich's 4-year-old grandson, Landon, is an aspiring baker, and chef, and doctor, along with countless other hobbies.
Well after midnight, my grandson Landon pulled out my wife’s phone from under the couch. He hid it there, likely when he noticed my wife checking it while playing with him.
Silly boy.
“Landon, why did you do that?” I asked him.
He revealed a mischievous smile on his face.
“Play with me!” he told my wife.
She did, but only after he apologized to her.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a soft, sweet voice.
Even at 4 years old, especially at 4 years old, he knew what he was doing by hiding her phone. He wanted my wife’s full attention. Every second. His mother — my daughter — was the same way as a young child. Their countless similarities are uncanny, proving a case for the parental power of genetics.
Jerry Davich's daughter, Ashley, on the left, as a baby, next to her cousin, Jill, older brother, Josh, and their "Papa" Joe Davich in a photo from the mid-1980s.
Flashback to when my daughter was a young girl in the late 1980s. I used a camcorder to record a video of us playing in our home with her brother. The three of us were home alone, dancing, jumping, singing, and screaming as blaring rock music bounced off the walls.
The video showed a tiny girl raising her arms toward her father. She obviously pined for his attention. The father sees her. He whisks her off the floor, twirls her playfully, and places her down. Then he resumes his raucous antics. "Who is that guy?" I silently asked myself while watching the video.
My daughter’s eyes followed me around the room. She waited to be picked up again and played with again. Silly girl.
Fast forward to when my daughter began enjoying her journey through the “teenage tunnel,” as I call it. That young girl was becoming a young woman. Her eyes had other destinations besides her father’s gaze. Hugs didn't come with such a tight grip those days. Kisses were fewer and far between.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I flashed back to when Ashley hid my keys to keep my attention. Those missed hugs, at that tender age with such immediacy, have a way of never materializing again. Ask any parent of adult children.
In hindsight, it seems regrets are just memories that won't fade away. They also come with, unfortunately, better illustrations — more vivid, more unforgettable. This wreckage of regrets has a way of remaining frozen in time. For some of us, they remain frozen on videotape, too.
When my daughter was 16, she got her driver's license. She was ecstatic over the possibilities, including the freedom to drive herself where she pleased without having to ask her dad for a lift.
But I had a plan. Maybe if I hid her car keys. I might feel the same way when Landon gets his driver's license.
Yeah, I know. Silly dad. Silly granddad.
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