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About once a week he’d come out of his bathroom carrying the can of shaving cream.

“Can you believe this?” he’d ask. “It doesn’t seem to be going down at all. They must really pack that stuff in there.” My dad was pretty perceptive. I couldn’t remember exactly when this ritual had begun, but it seemed as if it went on for months.

“Well,” Mom would assure him, “when you shake the can it sets off the gas or whatever it is that makes it foam. Maybe they’ve just gotten better at squeezing the gas in the can.”

Mom, of course, was replacing the can every few days with a new one, never letting the level of cream inside to get low enough to make a noticeable difference when the switch was made. Her bedroom closet held many, many partially emptied cans, stuck in between hatboxes and umbrellas.

We were all pretty certain that Daddy knew about the joke and was just playing along, but with those two, you never could be absolutely sure.

Growing up in our house was a lot of things, but most of all it was just plain fun.

I’ll see you again, after the commercial.

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