“Let’s watch Full House!” I exclaimed excitedly to my family as we were deciding on what to watch this evening. I was met with groans and a unanimous emphatic “no”. We watched Shrek instead which still awesome.
When the movie was over, my husband and I split up to get the kids ready for bed. He took our eldest downstairs to get him bathed, while me and my daughter snuggled on the couch for an extra few minutes. I scrolled through Netflix, and found Full House, clicking to watch it.
“When I was a little girl,” I began as the opening scenes danced across our television, ” this was my favorite show.” Her green eyes looked up at me, nodding, not really understanding a world where her Mama was a little girl just like she is now.
I got up part way through the episode to put my cup in the sink, and when I returned to the living room, my daughter was sitting on the floor, right in front of the television, legs crossed, fiddling with a strand of her hair as she watched. A lump formed in my throat as I found myself remembering a pigtailed, brown haired, oddly dressed young girl sitting cross legged, as close to the small television in her home as she could possibly manage, watching the exact family, at least 24 years earlier. I loved that family, I wanted to be that family. It was for so many reasons an escape for me, a reason to dream about family that rallied around each other no matter what. I always wished for that as a child, and even now as an adult.
“Do you like this show?” I asked as I sat down beside her on the carpet.
She nodded, never taking her eyes off the screen. When we she was called down for her bath, she asked me to pause it so we could continue it when she was finished.
Which is what we did, then we watched one more episode because her brother had joined us, and decided it was his new favorite show. For the duration, there was silence, and then the occasional separate giggles from the kids, then the parents.
They made me promise not to watch a single episode without them.