The Irony of the Unintended Fist

Here is my first crappy memory of my father, Adam: I am three since my parents are in the same bed. Our grandmother, whom I will call Beelzebubbe many years later, gives my brothers and me these small timers on key chains. It takes us a while to figure out how to use them, there is some sort of trick, I don't remember what. But once we understand how we each set our timers for a minute, they tick until time is up, and then they loudly ding. Mom has made some sugar cookies the day before, the kind with colored sugar on top, and we're happily setting our timers, and then eating a cookie at every ding. Eventually we run out of cookies. For some unknown reason I then get it into my head to show the timer to my parents. I toddle into their bedroom where they are lying naked, Mom awake, my father asleep. He is very hairy. Her breasts are very large. She covers them up. I show the timer to her and she smiles. Then I want to show him, Adam, my father, Dad. I creep over and hold the timer to his ear, so he can hear the ticking. The dinger goes off. Adam is startled. His fist shoots out like a boxing glove on an accordion extension in a cartoon. I fly across the room. Then I run back into the kitchen and sit under the table screeching. Both of my parents are mortified. It is an accident, and one of the few times I remember Adam being absolutely sorry about anything. First memory. Unlike many of my generation I earn rather than inherit the right to see the world as a place of immeasurable irony.