"I want to wear my space suit," Owen screams, snot running down his face.

We're in his room, trying to pick out an outfit. He rejects all the t-shirts I offer. Even the old stand-bys can't compete. He denounces the black one with a Celtic design that his uncle brought back from Ireland. He pushes the yellow smokejumper shirt, a particular preference because it features both his father's occupation and his current favorite color, right out of my hands. None of these mere mortal shirts fit the image he has in his head. He needs something that will launch his transformation into a space ranger, a la Buzz Lightyear, the star his favorite movie. It's one of the few mass-marketed films we've even allowed him to watch. Maybe that's why this character is so real to him.

It's sparked an obsession with the universe, including all the planets, rockets and any other form of intergalactic travel. Everyday he pores through his picture encyclopedia book of space, tracing his finger over the four stages of Saturn's inaugural visit to the moon. He recites the steps the astronauts must go through to eject the spent fuel tanks and eventually land on the moon.

"And how do they eject the fuel tanks?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say. "They must push a button."

Owen is three years old with ears that stick out just like his daddy's and eyes bluer than mine. And he knows that the perfect shirt must have buttons for him to push. I've tried to be a patient parent, but right now what I really want to do is rip the space poster right off the wall and throw it in the trash. Instead I try to steady my voice, listening for a calm and clear cadence. "It's alright, Owen. We'll find something for you to wear."

Meanwhile my mind is racing ahead, looking for a way out of this stand off. We decide to focus on his pants, instead. He's happy with a pair of Carhartt jeans, the perfect pants for the working stiff who's determined to do his job in the vast expanse of space. A sense of calm returns to Owen's face. I have just about narrowed the choices of shirts down to two different options, talking all the while about what a great space ranger he will be, when daddy walks into the room.

Owen wheels around, his hands clenched into claw-like fists, his eyes squinting as narrow as a wet cat's as he sputters, "Get out of here, daddy. I hate you!"

My stomach feels like a churning vat of sour milk. Even though I try to maintain a calm façade, my anger leaks out in a hiss. "Don't say that. Don't you ever say that."

Owen is only empowered by my reaction. He repeats it over and over again, "I hate you, daddy. I hate you, daddy." I run from the room telling Mike over my shoulder that I just can't deal.

***

My father left when I was not much older than Owen. He walked away from his family, a wife and three little girls all under the age of four years old. He was eventually diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Vietnam. He'd served two tours of duty before he met my mom. She told me their first year of marriage was peppered with terrifying screams in the night. Once, she woke up to discover him missing from their bed. He was crouched down into a sniper stance in the corner, his eyes wide with fear.

Soon enough, he was gone, but not before their marriage devolved into a merry-go-round of spectacular fights and bouts of him missing all night. He would take the car on his rambling leaves of absence. My only memory of my father from that time was as an infrequent play mate. He would blast fun rock songs and sing along at the top of his voice. "Left a good job in the city, working for the man every night and day."

When my father finally left, it felt like we had survived an emotional tsunami. My mom emerged a confident, single mother. She enrolled in nursing school, and then worked nights to support us. She was a tireless promoter of our talents and skills. I don't remember what she said when we asked where our daddy was. I do remember her assurances that we had done nothing wrong. Ever since then, I've resolved not to let myself think it was my fault.

***

When Owen's father asked me to marry him, I thought it would be the perfect partnership. My independence and practically physician-prescribed need for solitude meshed well with his job. Mike is a smokejumper, a wildland fire fighter who risks everything to jump out of airplanes, beat back flames and cut down trees. It's work that leaves him covered with sweat and sore from nights spent on the forest floor. He comes home smelling like a campfire, a pleasant connotation of campouts and s'mores for me, but an asthma-aggravating burden for him.

The work takes him out of town for days, sometimes weeks at a time. I relished the solitude. I didn't have to rush home from work or make meals for two. I could follow my every whim, whether it was playing soccer three nights a week or catching the latest band to make its way to the far northern town of Fairbanks, where we live. I made plans without worrying whether they conflicted with our couple's calendar. Mike was busy with his own life.

Then we became parents and everything changed. I quit my job to stay home with Owen. Becoming a mother was like a giant leap into space or out of a plane with a parachute for me. I never wanted to be a single parent. My mom's experience was burned into me like a scar. Yet the man I chose to be the father of my child would be gone much of the time.

***

The last time I saw my father, he was dying of cancer. A huge goiter swelled his neck to several times its normal size. I was 20 years old and hadn't seen him for many years. My sisters and I chattered nervously, offering polite details from our lives. He proudly showed us three tattered construction paper posters featuring our astrological signs. He'd held onto them for years, he said, faithfully displaying them in each new bedroom. Mine said Taurus, when my late May birthday puts me securely in Gemini's house.

He died on Mother's Day in 1990 while I was away at college. At the funeral a soldier presented my mother with a folded flag, a symbol of a grateful nation recognizing his devoted and selfless service. I returned to my university town where there were finals to finish. The normalcy surprised me. I had expected immobilizing grief. I thought my father's death would finally force me to make sense of what he meant to me, but I couldn't even cry.

It wasn't until years later that the tears did come. I had long since moved away, north to Alaska to pursue my dreams of adventure. One sunny spring afternoon, I sat on the front porch thinking about Memorial Day. I lived in a military town near two large bases, yet I didn't know any active duty soldiers. Suddenly I realized that my father was a deceased veteran. That's when I realized he was really gone. My only memories of him would forever be seen through the eyes of a child. As I sobbed, I thought about losing the opportunity to have an adult relationship with my father.

***

Sometimes I question the choice to stay home with Owen full-time. I remember how good it felt to know my place in the world. I miss the security of a regular paycheck and my own workplace telephone extension. I long for the built-in approval of having a job, something to validate my existence. That's when I resent Mike because his life doesn't seem to have changed much. He still gets up every morning with somewhere to go. Then I remember the good parts. Since I don't have to punch a time clock, I have time - time to write, time to go to the park. And maybe I've learned something.

My relationship with my father may have been a sunny side up egg that didn't set properly, but that doesn't mean Owen will have the same fate. It's not even up to me. Someday he will have to decide what kind of relationship he and his father will have. Until then he'll wear his special space ranger shirt. It's got multi colored "buttons" made of parachute fabric, cut with a hot knife on one of the sewing tables at the smokejumper base. It even features a nameplate displayed over his heart. Mike made it for him.

Theresa Bakker has worked at public radio stations across Alaska for the past 15 years. She is a freelance writer and is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing from Pacific Lutheran University. She lives with her husband and son in downtown Fairbanks, where they pretend to visit the extinct volcanoes on Mars. You can read more of her work at myfairbankslife.blogspot.com.