Be Intentional
How to make a core memory
Have you ever heard the song Sunroof, by Nicky Youre? Yeah, I’m not a big fan of it either. Sometimes though, certain things make you love something else—things that you’re not a big fan of, and when this happens it helps you realize why this thing that you’re not a big fan of is important. That sentence was confusing. Let me break it down.
On July 3rd, we were on a speedboat, pulling our girls, Frances, and Mabel, on a giant tube. Penny, their cousin, was with them, too. Frances was in the middle and she kept pointing her finger, swinging it around, and then running her hand through her hair. I just thought she was being a little bit weird.1 That’s not an anomaly with her.
When we slowed down to a stop we pulled in Big Mabel2 while the three girls were waving their fingers in the air singing, “one thing on my mind!” My sister-in-law asked Frances why she kept throwing her hand through her hair.
“Because of that song—I’ve heard it before. It goes ‘duh, duh, na, nuh, sunroof … duh, du, na, nuh, one thing on my mind.’ Do you know it?”
She smiled, “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
It was endearing—watching each of them on that tube. It was Mabel’s3 first time on it, too. Frances bobbed her finger at them, moving her mouth to the song. Then, running her hand through her hair. They were all having fun—it looked to be the kind of fun where you’re not thinking of anything, but the fun; a rare thing for those of us who have been thrust into growing up, as society bore down.
When we pulled alongside the dock my wife, Meghan, ran up to meet with Mabel, “You did it! You finally went on Big Mabel!” Mabel smiled her shy smile, a generational trait she must have won over from my side of the family. Meghan picked her up and hugged her. We walked indoors and each had a snack. I asked Frances what song she sang when we were on the boat. As she tried to explain it, Meghan said, “Oh, yeah. Sunroof. We turn that up in the car when it comes on.”4 I found it on my phone, played it, and the girls, their cousins, and my wife, all started leaning into the song—truly feeling it. I shook my head, as if annoyed.5
We headed out on the boat a few hours later, and the girls were kneeling in the front, singing that song. I looked at them, and I wondered.
Be aware of what’s going on, take a mental step back, take a breath. Shut out the noise. Realize you can turn this into a something beyond what you think you already know; you have control of it, you have that power. Then, let the noise back in.
I took out my phone and searched for Sunroof. I played it, turned up the volume, brought it down to the floor, and said, “Don’t pick it up, alright?” Frances looked up at me and smiled with all of her teeth. The girls started moving, shaking, and singing as they kneeled on the boat floor. I hoped they were experiencing this as a memory they would have when they were much older.
It’s catchy, and irritating in its need to lets-all-sing-a-long-to-it, too.
I love it, though. Because this is what the song has become. That moment might be a core memory for that group of girls, one that they’ll be able to recall when they’re 82. Imagine it—they would smile in reflection; thinking of each other as little, innocent girls; maybe a tear or two would fall from their aged eyes. You never know.
And now, it’s a core memory of mine.
I’ve always felt like I was above those things; I’ve felt like my awareness of life was so much better than how it must be for those who aren’t me. Let’s face it, I can be the annoyingly arrogant one.
Looking at it now, I can’t show who I think I am. Not anymore. All I can do is show exactly what the experience tells me to show—in this one, perfect moment.
Let it be fun.
If I were to say that in front of her, she would raise an eyebrow and tell me, “You’re just being a stupid man.” And that’s our banter; it’s how we love. It’s a healthy attribute to have with your daughter; understanding when to take offense and when not to is healthy; understanding when it’s okay to laugh and enjoy yourself—all healthy things.
Not to be confused with Mabel—the 5-year-old girl.
Not to be confused with Big Mabel—the giant, floating tube.
My wife and I have different musical tastes, but the girls love both.
Inside, I was full of complete joy.