I have a very strict rule against saying anything bad about my ex in front of The Kid. My son loves his dad, and I don't ever want him to look at me and wonder if maybe he shouldn't.
But, damn, The Ex makes it hard for me to follow my own rules sometimes. He does some things sometimes that I feel I must comment on.
Like taking my 7-year-old to a college-style kegger and teaching him to play beer pong. Granted, he gave The Kid orange juice to play with. But I watched my father die at 47 as a result of alcoholism. I don't really want to spoon feed drinking games to my kid. But, while I wanted to tell The Kid that his dad was maybe making some pretty shitty judgement calls, I turned the event into an opportunity to talk about drinking responsibly and the dangers of letting a ping pong ball determine one's booze consumption.
Or, as another example, how's about a little bit of animal neglect? This has been a tricky one, because I was ready to kill The Ex when I saw the condition of the dog. And I wanted to make absolutely certain The Kid knew that this is NOT an acceptable way to treat an animal. But how do I have that conversation without essentially saying "Duuuuuude. Your dad is an ass."?
I settled on a single conversation with The Kid wherein I confessed to being upset with his dad. I told The Kid that the dog should have been taken to the vet long ago, and should have been allowed into the house and properly cared for so that she could heal. I think that was enough. The Kid understood. I didn't need to beat him about the head with it. The rest - how to properly care for a pet - can be taught by example.
Still, I'm questioning my judgement on having said even that much.
But that doesn't compare to what happened Sunday night.
The Ex had to stop by to drop off some things for The Kid. When he left, he tore out of the neighborhood and barely even slowed down for the stop sign at the end of the street. (This happens with enough regularity that my neighbors have politely requested that I ask him to be more careful.) And in a fit of frustration and exhaustion and contempt, my internal editor chose that moment to go on strike.
"Ugh. Your dad's such an idiot."
It fell out of my mouth and landed with a splat on the table between us. We stared at it, silent, with equal amounts of shock hanging from our faces.
I honestly don't know what happened. All these years of biting my tongue, of choosing my words so carefully, and a minor traffic violation is what breaks me?
Immediately I apologized, explained that it scares me when his dad drives so fast in the neighborhood with so many young kids running around; that in a moment of anger I said something that I didn't really mean. And then I apologized again.
Once The Kid got over his initial shock, I'm pretty sure he promptly forgot the incident. But I'm still kicking myself for it.
Ugh. Mommy is such an idiot.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Missing him
The Kid left on Monday morning for a week in San Diego with his grandma. He doesn't go away for extended periods of time often; usually just long weekends here and there with his dad. But regardless of the length of time, I always hate it when he's away.
And also kind of love it.
It's nice to have a break sometimes. This single-parenting thing is exhausting and I usually take advantage of the opportunity to nap luxuriously. And then I clean my house and marvel at how long it stays clean. And then I catch up with a book and maybe some friends. And in the end, I'm ready for him to come home, but I've enjoyed the time he's away.
But this time? Not so much.
He's been transitioning lately; coming into his own a bit. In the past few weeks, numbers of neighbors and friends have commented on how more grown up he seems; how comfortable and confident he's becoming. He's initiating conversations with people he was too shy to look in the eye a month ago. And he's initiating interesting conversations; conversations that go well beyond which Pokemon card he has yet to add to his collection (though those conversations are still quite prevalent).
It's those conversations I'm missing; his often startling insights into the tales of my day; his jokes, even the ones that revolve entirely around fart noises.
I miss just chatting with him, my little mini roommate.
I also miss his fashion choices. Cleaning out my office, I came across my camera and remembered some photos I'd taken last week in an effort to document three of his current fashion musts.
Number One: these shoes, because anything with a skull is automatically awesome.
Number Two: this hat, which I have to admit, I love on him. And Number Three: this expression, because everyone knows the perfect pout is paramount.
I am determined to make the most of this week to myself. But I'm ready for him to come home anytime.
And also kind of love it.
It's nice to have a break sometimes. This single-parenting thing is exhausting and I usually take advantage of the opportunity to nap luxuriously. And then I clean my house and marvel at how long it stays clean. And then I catch up with a book and maybe some friends. And in the end, I'm ready for him to come home, but I've enjoyed the time he's away.
But this time? Not so much.
He's been transitioning lately; coming into his own a bit. In the past few weeks, numbers of neighbors and friends have commented on how more grown up he seems; how comfortable and confident he's becoming. He's initiating conversations with people he was too shy to look in the eye a month ago. And he's initiating interesting conversations; conversations that go well beyond which Pokemon card he has yet to add to his collection (though those conversations are still quite prevalent).
It's those conversations I'm missing; his often startling insights into the tales of my day; his jokes, even the ones that revolve entirely around fart noises.
I miss just chatting with him, my little mini roommate.
I also miss his fashion choices. Cleaning out my office, I came across my camera and remembered some photos I'd taken last week in an effort to document three of his current fashion musts.
Number One: these shoes, because anything with a skull is automatically awesome.
Number Two: this hat, which I have to admit, I love on him. And Number Three: this expression, because everyone knows the perfect pout is paramount.
I am determined to make the most of this week to myself. But I'm ready for him to come home anytime.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Permission to speak freely
The Man has been reading this blog since its inception, back when he and I were still pretending to be just friends. There was a time when I didn't really want to share him with you; was too confused and conflicted about our relationship. But that's no longer the case and The Man himself has suggested that the omission of our relationship is leaving an obtrusive black hole in my blog. He has encouraged me to write freely, write honestly, about anything at all, as if he wasn't reading. So here goes:
The Man's Facebook page is making me insecure.
Now, I'm a rational woman. And that statement? Zero logic. So let's back up for a minute and start at the beginning, lest this confession make you question my cognitive abilities.
Once upon a time, The Man and I fell in love. It was 2004. We met at a party... and then stayed at the party until after 4 in the morning. And then we stayed in his car until after 7 in the morning. It was love; immediate love. The only problem was that he already had a girlfriend. But surely we could be friends, right? Why let this obvious soul mate connection go to waste simply because he was off the market.
Yes. We'd be the best friends the world had ever seen.
Heh. Right. We tried. We really, really tried. But we were in love, and no one was buying that we weren't.
I was his soul mate, but she was his girlfriend. She was the one he could see himself building a life and a family with. And so they married. And then came the babies. And I, his best friend in the whole wide world, got to sit in the front row and watch all of it, heartbroken, and try to understand.
Was he in love with both of us, and simply chose to stay on the path he'd been on when we met? Was he in love with both of us, but with her just a little more? Did he think we were a good fit emotionally, but not practically? Was I simply a little bit of porn; a tantalizing "other" to break up the monotony of his monogamy?
It didn't matter, really. There was someone better. Period.*
When we reconnected two years ago, much of our conversations were focused on healing the hurt caused by those earlier years. But our reconnection happened one month before he moved out of state, so we've done virtually all of our healing at great distances. While I am frankly amazed at how many pieces we've been able to put back together under these circumstances, there are still cracks. And on bad days, some of my insecurities start seeping through those cracks.
Yesterday was one of those days.
...AAAAAAnd we're back to Facebook. Ta Da!
Here's the thing: The Man is friends with a lot of his ex-girlfriends, and they insist on commenting on his status updates. They have inside jokes and references that I don't understand. They like the same music he likes. They're gardeners. They're yogis. They're earthy. They're pretty. They're interesting.
They are things that I am not. (There was someone better.) And I start feeling rejected again.
Of course I know how ridiculous this is. But there are a few things going on here:
1. Current Stress. This only happens on days when I'm already feeling like crap; already feeling ugly and unaccomplished and completely boring. Days when I'm suffering from not enough sleep or too many hormones. Days when The Kid or The Ex or The Dog are just too much to handle.
2. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. He chose to marry someone who wasn't me. Sometimes I get a little carried away and project the hurt caused by that one former relationships onto all of them.
3. Texas. We live many states and thousands of miles apart. Really, all I need when I start feeling this way is a hug. Instead we have to try to talk about it; try to use a rational conversation as the salve for a completely irrational wound.
That last one is a big one. There is so much about a long distance relationship that allows insecurities to thrive. So much that wouldn't be given the chance to be an issue, if only I could hold his hand, look into his eyes, fall asleep to the rhythm of his breath. Stupid Texas.
Thank God he'll be back in Seattle soon. Until then, I'm thinking that staying away from his Facebook page might be a good idea.
- - - - -
*I found out much later that The Man thought I was done having children. He wanted some, so my lack of desire to bear his little ones was a deal breaker. But here's the thing: The Man thought wrong. I would have happily had another baby. Whoops.
The Man's Facebook page is making me insecure.
Now, I'm a rational woman. And that statement? Zero logic. So let's back up for a minute and start at the beginning, lest this confession make you question my cognitive abilities.
Once upon a time, The Man and I fell in love. It was 2004. We met at a party... and then stayed at the party until after 4 in the morning. And then we stayed in his car until after 7 in the morning. It was love; immediate love. The only problem was that he already had a girlfriend. But surely we could be friends, right? Why let this obvious soul mate connection go to waste simply because he was off the market.
Yes. We'd be the best friends the world had ever seen.
Heh. Right. We tried. We really, really tried. But we were in love, and no one was buying that we weren't.
I was his soul mate, but she was his girlfriend. She was the one he could see himself building a life and a family with. And so they married. And then came the babies. And I, his best friend in the whole wide world, got to sit in the front row and watch all of it, heartbroken, and try to understand.
Was he in love with both of us, and simply chose to stay on the path he'd been on when we met? Was he in love with both of us, but with her just a little more? Did he think we were a good fit emotionally, but not practically? Was I simply a little bit of porn; a tantalizing "other" to break up the monotony of his monogamy?
It didn't matter, really. There was someone better. Period.*
When we reconnected two years ago, much of our conversations were focused on healing the hurt caused by those earlier years. But our reconnection happened one month before he moved out of state, so we've done virtually all of our healing at great distances. While I am frankly amazed at how many pieces we've been able to put back together under these circumstances, there are still cracks. And on bad days, some of my insecurities start seeping through those cracks.
Yesterday was one of those days.
...AAAAAAnd we're back to Facebook. Ta Da!
Here's the thing: The Man is friends with a lot of his ex-girlfriends, and they insist on commenting on his status updates. They have inside jokes and references that I don't understand. They like the same music he likes. They're gardeners. They're yogis. They're earthy. They're pretty. They're interesting.
They are things that I am not. (There was someone better.) And I start feeling rejected again.
Of course I know how ridiculous this is. But there are a few things going on here:
1. Current Stress. This only happens on days when I'm already feeling like crap; already feeling ugly and unaccomplished and completely boring. Days when I'm suffering from not enough sleep or too many hormones. Days when The Kid or The Ex or The Dog are just too much to handle.
2. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. He chose to marry someone who wasn't me. Sometimes I get a little carried away and project the hurt caused by that one former relationships onto all of them.
3. Texas. We live many states and thousands of miles apart. Really, all I need when I start feeling this way is a hug. Instead we have to try to talk about it; try to use a rational conversation as the salve for a completely irrational wound.
That last one is a big one. There is so much about a long distance relationship that allows insecurities to thrive. So much that wouldn't be given the chance to be an issue, if only I could hold his hand, look into his eyes, fall asleep to the rhythm of his breath. Stupid Texas.
Thank God he'll be back in Seattle soon. Until then, I'm thinking that staying away from his Facebook page might be a good idea.
- - - - -
*I found out much later that The Man thought I was done having children. He wanted some, so my lack of desire to bear his little ones was a deal breaker. But here's the thing: The Man thought wrong. I would have happily had another baby. Whoops.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
A single mommy tip
This is a little gem I learned from my own single mother, all in the name of getting just a little more sleep in the mornings. As soon as your child is old enough to entertain him/herself without direct supervision for a little while in the mornings, make it easy for them to make their own breakfast.
I know. It's not exactly mind blowing. But I'm pretty sure little tricks like these are the only things keeping me from a shaved head Britney style breakdown.
Since preschool, my son has had his own shelf in a lower kitchen cabinet that holds his plates, bowls, cups, and utensils (all plastic and unbreakable in the early days). Select snacks are also kept in the cupboard: usually just cereal, but sometimes crackers and fig newtons and other healthy treats. Before he developed self-restraint, I kept only a single serving of each treat in small containers in his cupboard. Eventually, I could just throw entire boxes in there. My kid is a big cereal eater, so when he was younger I also kept some milk in a water bottle (easier for little hands to grip while pouring) on a low shelf in the fridge.
As a working single mom (or, I would assume, a parent of any circumstances), every extra second of sleep helps, right? With this set up, I used to get anywhere from 20 minutes to an extra hour of sleep. I always woke up when I heard his little footsteps heading to the kitchen, and would listen for any "uh oh"s in case I needed to clean any spills. But then I could doze blissfully while he ate his breakfast and (on the glorious days) returned to his bedroom to play quietly by himself for a while.
He thought it was the coolest thing in the world because it made him a big boy, and I thought it was the coolest thing in the world because sleep is awwwwwwesome. Total win-win.
I know. It's not exactly mind blowing. But I'm pretty sure little tricks like these are the only things keeping me from a shaved head Britney style breakdown.
Since preschool, my son has had his own shelf in a lower kitchen cabinet that holds his plates, bowls, cups, and utensils (all plastic and unbreakable in the early days). Select snacks are also kept in the cupboard: usually just cereal, but sometimes crackers and fig newtons and other healthy treats. Before he developed self-restraint, I kept only a single serving of each treat in small containers in his cupboard. Eventually, I could just throw entire boxes in there. My kid is a big cereal eater, so when he was younger I also kept some milk in a water bottle (easier for little hands to grip while pouring) on a low shelf in the fridge.
As a working single mom (or, I would assume, a parent of any circumstances), every extra second of sleep helps, right? With this set up, I used to get anywhere from 20 minutes to an extra hour of sleep. I always woke up when I heard his little footsteps heading to the kitchen, and would listen for any "uh oh"s in case I needed to clean any spills. But then I could doze blissfully while he ate his breakfast and (on the glorious days) returned to his bedroom to play quietly by himself for a while.
He thought it was the coolest thing in the world because it made him a big boy, and I thought it was the coolest thing in the world because sleep is awwwwwwesome. Total win-win.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Cue the violins
Ugh. What a crap ass weekend.
The dog is driving me nuts. She still requires near constant supervision, and even with that she managed to tear off a good portion of the scab on her back and a patch of flesh on her lower lip. I have no idea how she did either of those things. In both cases, she was fine one moment and bloody the next.
And I can't count how many times I pulled her head out of the toilet, wiped her drool off the hardwoods, listened to her scrape her cone down the walls, assisted her down the stairs just so she could turn around and walk right back up them, cleaned up her tipped water bowl, got up in the middle of the night to let her pee, and tripped over her because she insists on walking right behind me ALL THE FREAKING TIME. Seriously, you guys. My dog is stalking me.
Did I mention that she's deaf? Well she is, temporarily (please, please, please let it be temporary), thanks to those roaring ear infections. In the meantime, it's nearly impossible to reteach her the house manners that have been erased by too many years locked outside.
And the walks. I've about lost my patience with the dirty looks, people. Do I need to wear a shirt that says "I didn't do it" whenever I take her out? God bless the uncouth children who aren't afraid to just ask what the hell happened to her.
Of course, it all seemed worse this weekend thanks to the violent uprising of the contents of my stomach. Repeated violent uprisings. Perhaps as a sign of sympathy, the dog started throwing up too. Awesome.
I will be so very glad when she is back to normal. There will still be the issues of her drool on my hardwoods and her tipped water dishes (she always has been a bit of a klutz), and at her age there's a very good chance that the stair assistance will need to continue. But eventually, The Kid and I will be trained to put the lid down on the toilet, and she'll stop leaving smudges of blood on my furniture and scabs on my kitchen floor. And then won't life be grand?
And really. How freaking adorable is this?
Then (Fall, 2001):
Now (Spring, 2009):
The dog is driving me nuts. She still requires near constant supervision, and even with that she managed to tear off a good portion of the scab on her back and a patch of flesh on her lower lip. I have no idea how she did either of those things. In both cases, she was fine one moment and bloody the next.
And I can't count how many times I pulled her head out of the toilet, wiped her drool off the hardwoods, listened to her scrape her cone down the walls, assisted her down the stairs just so she could turn around and walk right back up them, cleaned up her tipped water bowl, got up in the middle of the night to let her pee, and tripped over her because she insists on walking right behind me ALL THE FREAKING TIME. Seriously, you guys. My dog is stalking me.
Did I mention that she's deaf? Well she is, temporarily (please, please, please let it be temporary), thanks to those roaring ear infections. In the meantime, it's nearly impossible to reteach her the house manners that have been erased by too many years locked outside.
And the walks. I've about lost my patience with the dirty looks, people. Do I need to wear a shirt that says "I didn't do it" whenever I take her out? God bless the uncouth children who aren't afraid to just ask what the hell happened to her.
Of course, it all seemed worse this weekend thanks to the violent uprising of the contents of my stomach. Repeated violent uprisings. Perhaps as a sign of sympathy, the dog started throwing up too. Awesome.
I will be so very glad when she is back to normal. There will still be the issues of her drool on my hardwoods and her tipped water dishes (she always has been a bit of a klutz), and at her age there's a very good chance that the stair assistance will need to continue. But eventually, The Kid and I will be trained to put the lid down on the toilet, and she'll stop leaving smudges of blood on my furniture and scabs on my kitchen floor. And then won't life be grand?
And really. How freaking adorable is this?
Then (Fall, 2001):
Now (Spring, 2009):
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Everyone is mad here
It all started with my home office, and one obnoxiously blank wall that needs some love.
I want something whimsical on that wall. The room is built for linear thought, for logic, for coloring in the lines. I want something to remind me to see things differently, even when I'm paying my bills.
I want a little Tom Robbins in my office. A little Douglas Adams. A Little Prince.
This one:
Not this one:
I want some Oz, some Wonderland in my office.
So I wandered my way over to Etsy to see what I could find. I started with Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, which, along with Through the Looking Glass, was probably the first piece of literature to thoroughly blow my mind.
Side note: as a child old enough to know better, I used to ride my horse around looking for rabbit holes to jump down. This probably says more about how desperate I was to escape my step-mom (you can read a little about her here and here) than anything else. But I really was that captivated by the idea of Wonderland.
Anyway, I didn't find anything I might actually want to hang on my wall, but I did find some cool Wonderland inspired things to look at. Enjoy.
Not from Etsy, but kind of freaking amazing:
Spanish Lace by Edyta Cieloch currently on in a Museum of Art and Design show called Object Factory.
Mad Hatter from Jessica Rosario's Wonderland collection.
I want something whimsical on that wall. The room is built for linear thought, for logic, for coloring in the lines. I want something to remind me to see things differently, even when I'm paying my bills.
I want a little Tom Robbins in my office. A little Douglas Adams. A Little Prince.
This one:
Not this one:
I want some Oz, some Wonderland in my office.
So I wandered my way over to Etsy to see what I could find. I started with Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, which, along with Through the Looking Glass, was probably the first piece of literature to thoroughly blow my mind.
Side note: as a child old enough to know better, I used to ride my horse around looking for rabbit holes to jump down. This probably says more about how desperate I was to escape my step-mom (you can read a little about her here and here) than anything else. But I really was that captivated by the idea of Wonderland.
Anyway, I didn't find anything I might actually want to hang on my wall, but I did find some cool Wonderland inspired things to look at. Enjoy.
Not from Etsy, but kind of freaking amazing:
Spanish Lace by Edyta Cieloch currently on in a Museum of Art and Design show called Object Factory.
Mad Hatter from Jessica Rosario's Wonderland collection.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Stories knocked loose by Father's Day
When my dad was 5, he watched his father beat his mother so severely she required hospitalization.
This was hardly the first time he'd witnessed such a beating but, thankfully, it would be the last. When he heard the voices rising, heard the kitchen chair slam into the wall as his father stood to tower menacingly over his mother, my dad grabbed his younger brother and hid him under blankets in their bedroom closet like he'd done so many times before. And then he ran back to the kitchen to stand beside his mother while she took her brutal beating.
When it was over, his mother was bloodied and swollen and unable to speak. My dad snuck out of the apartment to borrow a neighbor's phone and call the police. In was an act which, when discovered, earned him a beating of his own. It was also an act that saved his mother's life. She would have died on the kitchen floor without him.
My dad wasn't sure what happened after that: whether or not his father was arrested (it was the '50s, after all), whether his mother told his father they were leaving, or his father told his mother to get out. But one way or another, they left my grandfather in Boston and came home to Seattle.
His mother refused to take care of herself or her children, so my dad did the best he could at that very young age to do it for her. He made peanut butter and jelly meals for the family. He watched over his brother and - eventually, when his mother got knocked up a few years later - his baby sister. He tucked everyone in at night. He worked paper routes and took odd jobs around the neighborhood to supplement the welfare checks. His mother became increasingly dependent on him, both emotionally and financially. It wasn't long before she started charging both boys rent.
They grew into troubled children befitting their circumstances. My dad, who took the brunt of the dysfunction and did his best to shelter the younger two, was a heavy drinker by the time he was 10.
Many years later as a young adult, my dad tracked down his father and confronted the man whose shoes he'd had to fill. This act triggered a series of events that would haunt my dad for the remainder of his living days. His father got back in touch with his mother. A bi-coastal romance budded between them. And 20 years after the beating that landed her in the hospital, his mother returned to Boston to remarry his father, leaving her 16-year-old daughter to deal with the astronomical long-distance phone bills and delinquent rent.
Those 20 years were swept under the rug, coined by his mother as the time "while your father was away," and off-limits for discussion. They were never acknowledged again. Nor was the abuse that preceded them. There was never an apology from either parent to any of the children. Instead, the children were required to pretend that their lives up to that point had not happened; that different lives, the happy lives of a complete family had filled those years.
And then, because she knew he would pay them like he always had, my grandmother began forwarding my dad her bills. In great manilla envelopes they would arrive, just as they had for years... except now they contained his father's bills as well. The father whose sole contribution to his childhood was nearly killing his mother.
And my dad paid them. Supported both his parents for 20 more years, until he died.
And in the hospital, just before his liver gave his parents the finger and took their money tree into the great beyond, my grandmother sat at his bedside, looked at her son and said:
"I don't know why he drinks the way he does..."
******
My father was not a perfect parent. There was, after all, that small issue of his alcoholism to contend with, a flaw which he always believed precluded him from being a good parent. He believed, in fact, that his alcoholism equated him with his own father.
My dad's only real flaw was how stubbornly he kept his head up his own ass.
I wish he could have seen the number of his "children" in attendance at his memorial. It was breathtaking. Former step-children, children of ex-girlfriends, grandchildren of ex-girlfriends, friends of my brother's who he'd taken in when their own parents threw them out. So many people came to me after the service to tell me that he'd been a second father to them. One timid young woman tearfully thanked me for sharing him.
I wish he would have known while he was here how many people were proud to call him dad, and how many more people wished they could have.
This was hardly the first time he'd witnessed such a beating but, thankfully, it would be the last. When he heard the voices rising, heard the kitchen chair slam into the wall as his father stood to tower menacingly over his mother, my dad grabbed his younger brother and hid him under blankets in their bedroom closet like he'd done so many times before. And then he ran back to the kitchen to stand beside his mother while she took her brutal beating.
When it was over, his mother was bloodied and swollen and unable to speak. My dad snuck out of the apartment to borrow a neighbor's phone and call the police. In was an act which, when discovered, earned him a beating of his own. It was also an act that saved his mother's life. She would have died on the kitchen floor without him.
My dad wasn't sure what happened after that: whether or not his father was arrested (it was the '50s, after all), whether his mother told his father they were leaving, or his father told his mother to get out. But one way or another, they left my grandfather in Boston and came home to Seattle.
His mother refused to take care of herself or her children, so my dad did the best he could at that very young age to do it for her. He made peanut butter and jelly meals for the family. He watched over his brother and - eventually, when his mother got knocked up a few years later - his baby sister. He tucked everyone in at night. He worked paper routes and took odd jobs around the neighborhood to supplement the welfare checks. His mother became increasingly dependent on him, both emotionally and financially. It wasn't long before she started charging both boys rent.
They grew into troubled children befitting their circumstances. My dad, who took the brunt of the dysfunction and did his best to shelter the younger two, was a heavy drinker by the time he was 10.
Many years later as a young adult, my dad tracked down his father and confronted the man whose shoes he'd had to fill. This act triggered a series of events that would haunt my dad for the remainder of his living days. His father got back in touch with his mother. A bi-coastal romance budded between them. And 20 years after the beating that landed her in the hospital, his mother returned to Boston to remarry his father, leaving her 16-year-old daughter to deal with the astronomical long-distance phone bills and delinquent rent.
Those 20 years were swept under the rug, coined by his mother as the time "while your father was away," and off-limits for discussion. They were never acknowledged again. Nor was the abuse that preceded them. There was never an apology from either parent to any of the children. Instead, the children were required to pretend that their lives up to that point had not happened; that different lives, the happy lives of a complete family had filled those years.
And then, because she knew he would pay them like he always had, my grandmother began forwarding my dad her bills. In great manilla envelopes they would arrive, just as they had for years... except now they contained his father's bills as well. The father whose sole contribution to his childhood was nearly killing his mother.
And my dad paid them. Supported both his parents for 20 more years, until he died.
And in the hospital, just before his liver gave his parents the finger and took their money tree into the great beyond, my grandmother sat at his bedside, looked at her son and said:
"I don't know why he drinks the way he does..."
******
My father was not a perfect parent. There was, after all, that small issue of his alcoholism to contend with, a flaw which he always believed precluded him from being a good parent. He believed, in fact, that his alcoholism equated him with his own father.
My dad's only real flaw was how stubbornly he kept his head up his own ass.
I wish he could have seen the number of his "children" in attendance at his memorial. It was breathtaking. Former step-children, children of ex-girlfriends, grandchildren of ex-girlfriends, friends of my brother's who he'd taken in when their own parents threw them out. So many people came to me after the service to tell me that he'd been a second father to them. One timid young woman tearfully thanked me for sharing him.
I wish he would have known while he was here how many people were proud to call him dad, and how many more people wished they could have.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Doggie Rescue, Day 3: The Vet
My dog is drugged, and she is NOT enjoying her trip.
She's fighting it will all she has, in fact; pacing in a futile effort to keep from falling asleep. This only means that she falls asleep while pacing. She's totally out of it. I tried to get her to drink some water, but instead of lapping she just dangled her tongue into the bowl and looked at me expectantly. And a moment ago she startled herself with her own fart.
As entertaining as all this is, I wish she'd just curl up and go to sleep like a good little stoner.
It has been a trying day for us both. She had to be poked and prodded for three hours at the vet. And me? I chose the middle of the crowded waiting room to lose my shit. Started crying and couldn't stop. It was awesome.
In the end, her diagnosis and prognosis aren't so bad. Or, rather, the diagnosis is bad in that the extent of her ailments was entirely preventable, but her prognosis is not so bad in that it's all fixable. Her blood work won't be back until Monday, but here's what we've got so far:
Severe ear infection. She was given a routine ear cleaning and an ear ointment two-week treatment. She may need another round of the treatment.
Deep skin infection. She was given a sedative and an injection of pain medication. This was necessary so that they could give her a medicated bath, shave and medicate each wound, and take a skin scraping (ouch!). They found no fleas or mites, which is good and rules that out as a cause for the skin infection. That leaves a number of possibilities: severe allergy, thyroid issue, autoimmune disorder. The blood work will show if it's a thyroid issue or not. In the past (when she was my dog the first time), it was always diagnosed as an allergy. Of course, in the past, it was also treated immediately and not allowed to develop into an infection. She was given a shot of cortisone and has been prescribed a three-week antibiotic treatment, which may need to be repeated. Her wounds will need to be cleaned periodically with a weak iodine solution. And she has to wear the cone of shame.
She does not like the cone of shame.
Underweight. She's always been a skinny dog, but she's definitely lost some additional weight. The blood work will show if there are any thyroid issues at play. In the meantime, her crappy "whatever's cheapest at Costco" food will be mixed with hippie all natural puppy food.
Other stuff. The blood work will also check her liver and kidney function. And she's out of date on her shots, but that will be saved for another day.
Maybe I'm imagining things, but despite the cone and drugs, her face is beginning to look ever so slightly less sad.
She's fighting it will all she has, in fact; pacing in a futile effort to keep from falling asleep. This only means that she falls asleep while pacing. She's totally out of it. I tried to get her to drink some water, but instead of lapping she just dangled her tongue into the bowl and looked at me expectantly. And a moment ago she startled herself with her own fart.
As entertaining as all this is, I wish she'd just curl up and go to sleep like a good little stoner.
It has been a trying day for us both. She had to be poked and prodded for three hours at the vet. And me? I chose the middle of the crowded waiting room to lose my shit. Started crying and couldn't stop. It was awesome.
In the end, her diagnosis and prognosis aren't so bad. Or, rather, the diagnosis is bad in that the extent of her ailments was entirely preventable, but her prognosis is not so bad in that it's all fixable. Her blood work won't be back until Monday, but here's what we've got so far:
Severe ear infection. She was given a routine ear cleaning and an ear ointment two-week treatment. She may need another round of the treatment.
Deep skin infection. She was given a sedative and an injection of pain medication. This was necessary so that they could give her a medicated bath, shave and medicate each wound, and take a skin scraping (ouch!). They found no fleas or mites, which is good and rules that out as a cause for the skin infection. That leaves a number of possibilities: severe allergy, thyroid issue, autoimmune disorder. The blood work will show if it's a thyroid issue or not. In the past (when she was my dog the first time), it was always diagnosed as an allergy. Of course, in the past, it was also treated immediately and not allowed to develop into an infection. She was given a shot of cortisone and has been prescribed a three-week antibiotic treatment, which may need to be repeated. Her wounds will need to be cleaned periodically with a weak iodine solution. And she has to wear the cone of shame.
She does not like the cone of shame.Underweight. She's always been a skinny dog, but she's definitely lost some additional weight. The blood work will show if there are any thyroid issues at play. In the meantime, her crappy "whatever's cheapest at Costco" food will be mixed with hippie all natural puppy food.
Other stuff. The blood work will also check her liver and kidney function. And she's out of date on her shots, but that will be saved for another day.
Maybe I'm imagining things, but despite the cone and drugs, her face is beginning to look ever so slightly less sad.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Doggie rescue: Day 1
Warning: if you have an ounce of humanity in you, this post will piss you off and gross you out.
Last night I picked The Kid up from his dad's. When the front door went unanswered, I wandered around back. And there she was, pacing in her small pen, her black coat gray with dirt and mottled with patches of raw weeping doggie flesh.
And her eyes, black and dull and broken.
The debate ended immediately, right there on that uneven patch of grass. She would be coming home with me. I poked my fingers through the chicken wire fencing to rub her nose, and I trembled with fury.
Arrangements were made with The Ex later in the night, and she was delivered to me this evening.
Accustomed to being yelled at, she is now timid, uncertain, almost cowering. She spent the evening slinking along behind me with her lithe, cat-like gait, but stayed at a safe distance. And then the leash came out, and a walk ensued, and now I can't get her to stop resting her head in my lap whenever I sit down.
And now, if you're ready, the photos.
They are not pleasant.
Stop now if you're not sure you want to see.
If you're still here, I'm assuming you want to see these.
Don't blame me if you don't. I've given you plenty of time to turn around.
Here they are.
She has these matted scabby things all over (that gray area to the right of her tail) and hairless, bloody patches (you can see a bit of one on her back, right above her tail).
The bloody spots are everywhere: her belly, her neck, her lips. The worst spots are in her left armpit (if dogs had armpits) and this one on her back:
Her back is the same color as the red carpet and blanket she's sleeping on.
And it looks so much worse in real life than in these photos. It hurts me to look at her.
And her eyes. Still so sad.
Last night I picked The Kid up from his dad's. When the front door went unanswered, I wandered around back. And there she was, pacing in her small pen, her black coat gray with dirt and mottled with patches of raw weeping doggie flesh.
And her eyes, black and dull and broken.
The debate ended immediately, right there on that uneven patch of grass. She would be coming home with me. I poked my fingers through the chicken wire fencing to rub her nose, and I trembled with fury.
Arrangements were made with The Ex later in the night, and she was delivered to me this evening.
Accustomed to being yelled at, she is now timid, uncertain, almost cowering. She spent the evening slinking along behind me with her lithe, cat-like gait, but stayed at a safe distance. And then the leash came out, and a walk ensued, and now I can't get her to stop resting her head in my lap whenever I sit down.
And now, if you're ready, the photos.
They are not pleasant.
Stop now if you're not sure you want to see.
If you're still here, I'm assuming you want to see these.
Don't blame me if you don't. I've given you plenty of time to turn around.
Here they are.
She has these matted scabby things all over (that gray area to the right of her tail) and hairless, bloody patches (you can see a bit of one on her back, right above her tail).
The bloody spots are everywhere: her belly, her neck, her lips. The worst spots are in her left armpit (if dogs had armpits) and this one on her back:
Her back is the same color as the red carpet and blanket she's sleeping on.
And it looks so much worse in real life than in these photos. It hurts me to look at her.
And her eyes. Still so sad.
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