I was reading a Dave Barry book and for some odd reason I wanted to write something containing the last line of the 'chapter' Which is, the last line of this fic, so credit most of it to him since I really have no writing skills. :D Enjoy and remember: I suck at titles. :)
Disclaimer: Leave me alone. :P I don't own something as creative as Digimon, all my thoughts probably aren't my own either.
Son of Mine
I drove off down the street, away from the complex I had just dropped Yamato off at. And I wondered...
I wondered how I missed him growing up.
Granted, I always had work, I was always busy, thus I could never be home long enough to care for him. He learned to do so himself. Too damn well, I might say. He never needs my help anymore, and I was even grateful that he asked me to give him a ride to this party he was invited to. I still like to think of Yamato as my son, my little boy. No matter how old he is or how mature he acts, I'll still be his father. He's a bit worn in at being a teenager, at the younger year of fourteen.
I remember when he was merely eight years old and I came out of the shower one time. The once cleaned kitchen looked like it had been hit by a food tornado and I could vaguely smell the scent of burnt..something. Plastic, I think. I found Yamato huddled in a corner clutching his hand, having it being stung slightly by touching the hot stove, pink apron tied absently around his waist, as he looked up at me in deep remorse.
"I'm sorry Otou-san."
His cerulean blue eyes flickered, tiding back unshed tears. My son, he never cried. And if he did, he would never admit it.
"It's all right Yamato, let's go do something about your hand." I bent down and held out my own and he came to me like metal to a magnet. I put a band-aid on his slightly-singed finger so that it wouldn't rub against anything else and pain him. He looked up at me and smiled.
"Arigato, Otou-san."
Times have changed. I found this out the night of Yamato's first dance party, when, ten minutes before it was time to leave for the party, he strode up to me impatiently, wearing brand new clothes, looking perfect in the hair department and smelling vaguely of - could it be? Yes, it was Right Guard. - and told me that we had to go immediately or we'd be late. This statement from a person who has never, ever shown the slightest interest in being on time for anything, a person who was a week and a half late to his own birth. We arrived at the dance party home at the same time as Yamato's friend, Taichi, who strode up to us, eyes eager, hair looking pretty much like an intentional disaster.
"Taichi," I greeted, "You're wearing cologne." About two gallons, I estimated. He was emitting fragrance rays visible to the naked eye.
I trailed behind the boys into the apartment complex, where most of the teenagers were already dancing. Actually, at first I thought they were jumping up and down, but I have since learned that they were doing an actual dance. I stood around to watch Yamato, but he gestured towards me with a desperate look in his eye, telling me to leave, which I can understand. If God had wanted parents to watch kids dance wildly, He wouldn't have made them so old.
Around two hours into the evening, when I came back to pick him up, the kids were slow dancing. Of course, us parents weren't allowed to watch this either, but by peering through the window from outside, we could catch a glimpse of couples swaying together, occasionally illuminated by spontaneous fireballs of raw hormonal energy shooting around the room.
My son was in there somewhere. But not my little boy.
Disclaimer: Leave me alone. :P I don't own something as creative as Digimon, all my thoughts probably aren't my own either.
Son of Mine
I drove off down the street, away from the complex I had just dropped Yamato off at. And I wondered...
I wondered how I missed him growing up.
Granted, I always had work, I was always busy, thus I could never be home long enough to care for him. He learned to do so himself. Too damn well, I might say. He never needs my help anymore, and I was even grateful that he asked me to give him a ride to this party he was invited to. I still like to think of Yamato as my son, my little boy. No matter how old he is or how mature he acts, I'll still be his father. He's a bit worn in at being a teenager, at the younger year of fourteen.
I remember when he was merely eight years old and I came out of the shower one time. The once cleaned kitchen looked like it had been hit by a food tornado and I could vaguely smell the scent of burnt..something. Plastic, I think. I found Yamato huddled in a corner clutching his hand, having it being stung slightly by touching the hot stove, pink apron tied absently around his waist, as he looked up at me in deep remorse.
"I'm sorry Otou-san."
His cerulean blue eyes flickered, tiding back unshed tears. My son, he never cried. And if he did, he would never admit it.
"It's all right Yamato, let's go do something about your hand." I bent down and held out my own and he came to me like metal to a magnet. I put a band-aid on his slightly-singed finger so that it wouldn't rub against anything else and pain him. He looked up at me and smiled.
"Arigato, Otou-san."
Times have changed. I found this out the night of Yamato's first dance party, when, ten minutes before it was time to leave for the party, he strode up to me impatiently, wearing brand new clothes, looking perfect in the hair department and smelling vaguely of - could it be? Yes, it was Right Guard. - and told me that we had to go immediately or we'd be late. This statement from a person who has never, ever shown the slightest interest in being on time for anything, a person who was a week and a half late to his own birth. We arrived at the dance party home at the same time as Yamato's friend, Taichi, who strode up to us, eyes eager, hair looking pretty much like an intentional disaster.
"Taichi," I greeted, "You're wearing cologne." About two gallons, I estimated. He was emitting fragrance rays visible to the naked eye.
I trailed behind the boys into the apartment complex, where most of the teenagers were already dancing. Actually, at first I thought they were jumping up and down, but I have since learned that they were doing an actual dance. I stood around to watch Yamato, but he gestured towards me with a desperate look in his eye, telling me to leave, which I can understand. If God had wanted parents to watch kids dance wildly, He wouldn't have made them so old.
Around two hours into the evening, when I came back to pick him up, the kids were slow dancing. Of course, us parents weren't allowed to watch this either, but by peering through the window from outside, we could catch a glimpse of couples swaying together, occasionally illuminated by spontaneous fireballs of raw hormonal energy shooting around the room.
My son was in there somewhere. But not my little boy.