Whooooo Are You? Who? Who?

The young boy jumped out of the tree he was climbing. He walked past the small crowd of people who were huddled under the awning. They were trying to stay dry from the rain as they smoked their cigarettes.

"Hi!" He heard the man say.

"Hi!" He answered back.

"What's your name?"

"It's W."

"Well, how are you, W.?" He smiled at the boy.

"Good."

"Who's your mom?" The man questioned.

"Um....your daughter."

Yup, that my friends, was a scene from my nephew's birthday party a few weeks ago. I did not know that my father was going to be attending.

Actually, no one did.

The invitation was extended, by my brother, after a few failed attempts to visit with my father. My father was NEVER good at keeping promises. So, really, who would have thought that he'd show up for his grandson's first birthday.

SURPRISE!

I haven't seen him in quite a few years. Probably since my daughter was born and he graced us with his presence at the hospital. He stayed his usual eight to ten minutes. And that was that.

When I heard he had called and was on his way, a knot in my stomach tightened. He came in and I saw how old he had gotten. I could see the alcohol had finally caught up with him. He's only 67 years old, but the years of self abuse were apparent.

He smiled and spoke in his loud, "Is everyone looking at me" voice. He was still as pompous as ever. I think I rolled my eyes.

My children were all around me and I whispered in each of their ears, "That is your Grandfather Jim." I hated using the word Grandfather. As far as I'm concerned, their Grandfather is, sadly, in heaven. My father-in-law, who loved them dearly, is the only man my children should call Grandpa.

For about an hour, while joined in conversations, of which we were both included, he never spoke directly to me or to my children.

I began to fume. I texted back and forth with Mr. Schmitty, who was at work. I told him that the FUCKER couldn't even acknowledge us!

Then I heard the howling laughter from my brother. He proceeded to tell me the story of my son and my father out by the tree. My father had no idea who I was. He did not recognize me. WTF?!!

My dad came inside and was laughing and trying to hug me, which I guess was his way of apologizing for his screw up. My body, as usual, reacted to his touch by cringing and pulling away. I smiled a half smile and moved on to another topic.

Such was the way of our family. Ignore the dysfunction and sweep it under the carpet.

My brother and I shared a laugh later on that night as we recounted the colossal brain fart my father had exhibited. We always could bond over funny, ridiculous dad stories. I think it was our way of coping and dealing with our shit childhoods.

This one, without a doubt, would be going down in the books.

Laughter....I guess it IS the best medicine for a very, VERY sad situation.

Forever THAT Little Girl

I saw the number on the caller ID as I was picking up the telephone. "Not now," I thought to myself as I put the portable back in the dock.

I continued with my day and didn't give the call another thought. I pushed it into the depths of my brain. When I returned home that evening the house was dark. I walked into the kitchen and saw the blinking yellow light that let me know I had a voicemail. A familiar voice asked me to call him. He needed to ask me something.

"Shit."

Maybe he'll forget and that will be that. But twice in one day? So out of character. Was something wrong? Self-reproach set in. The knot in my stomach twisted a little tighter.

I went to bed and hoped that my anxiety didn't shape my dreams. Peaceful sleep was all I needed. It was all I asked for.

I awoke, well rested. My angst was gone. My mind must have protected me by slamming shut a door. I gave no thought to the phone calls of the day before.

That next day was like every other; busy with motherly duties. As the usual dinner time chaos was ensuing, I tried to get my children seated and fed. I was a bit frazzled when the phone rang and I grabbed it in a rush.

"Hello?" I said breathlessly into the phone. I was trying to plate macaroni and cheese and not drop the phone that was pinned between my ear and my shoulder.

"Hey!" I heard the voice. The one that always stopped me dead in my tracks.

The door in my mind suddenly flew open.

"FUCK!" My head screamed. I handed Mr. Schmitty the pot and serving spoon. I rolled my eyes and headed up the stairs to my room.

"Hey dad. Sorry I didn't call you back. Kind of a crazy day." I told him, making excuses and explaining myself. I hated the words as they tumbled out of my mouth. I hated myself for feeling as though I HAD to say them.

"Yea--listen," he spoke over me, as he usually did, not even hearing my lame rationalizations. "Could you send me a postcard with directions to your house?"

"Um---sure." Thinking to myself that he had to be kidding me. He lives not thirty minutes from me, in an area he has lived in for more than fifty years.

"I'd like to come see the Grandkids before they are old enough to vote!" He said with a laugh.

Funny. My children know that their Grandpa is in heaven, unfortunately for them, the one that truly loves them can no longer be with them.

"Okay. Yea, sure. Stop by," I said but was really thinking, "Yea, sure. That will never happen."

We spoke for a few more minutes. I grew increasingly agitated. The tightness in my chest increased. I knew the conversation would be over soon, it never lasted long. But it always felt like an eternity.

"So, you'll send me that postcard, right? I love you baby." He said and I knew he had filled his guilt card for the time being. Because I KNOW that guilt is what prompts his sudden need for kinship.

"I love you too, dad." I answered back as I ended the call. I fell back on my bed and let the phone drop from my hand.

I love you too. My eyes welled up. I balled both of my hands into fists and slammed them down on the mattress like so many times I've done in my life. But this time they stay unharmed. They did not swell or bruise as they had when I was a teenager and it was a wall I was punching instead. It was no longer necessary to inflict pain to release the suffering.

Why can't he just stay away? It's so much easier for me when I don't hear from him. I'm too weak to escape for myself.

But my children---they will be spared.

Take A Cue From Me

The first thing I have always noticed about a person is their smile. Unless, of course, I'm being introduced to a hawt guy, then it's his butt.

[wink, wink]

I am forever envious of those with perfectly aligned teeth. Those who were blessed with gorgeous grins, whether achieved through DNA or the expertise of an Orthodontist, always make me aware of my own set of chompers.

You see, I have a less than stellar set of teeth. Believe it or not, my mouth is too small for them all. Yea, can you believe that? Okay, stop laughing.

The crowding in my mouth warranted braces when I was a teen. My parents didn't have dental insurance. And to save that kind of money, well, interfered with my father's social agenda. I mean, just compare the two; braces for his daughter or buying round after round of brewskies, weekly, for his drinking buddies. I seriously couldn't expect him to disappoint his friends, now could I?

I endured teasing, as you can imagine. My teeth protruded, for a while, so I was at the receiving end of all of the "bucktooth" jokes. I swear I semi-corrected my own overbite by making sure that I had my front teeth pulled in behind my lips at all times.

But the overbite wasn't the worst of it. My right Cuspid, or Canine tooth, grew in front of the others. I took on the nickname of "Snagletooth". Something like that, just does wonders for a teenage girl's confidence. The cruel remarks were made behind my back, which was fortunate for them, because they were free to live another day, but the comments always seemed to find a way to my ears. One way or another.

It stung.

When I was eighteen I saved the money I earned while working as a part-time receptionist. I went to our family dentist and demanded he extract my right Cuspid. It was all I could afford to do to help ease some of my pain. He was very upset that I wanted to pull a perfectly healthy tooth.

I didn't care.

He may not have understood. He may have been angry. But pulling that one tooth, restored a little bit of a young girl's self-esteem.

A few years ago I talked with my current dentist and asked his opinion about correcting my teeth. I didn't so much as want to for cosmetic reasons, as I pretty much have come to terms with my smile. It is something I happen to do quite a lot of, thank you very much.

But I was interested, because of some sinus issues I have, due to an extremely high palate. My dentist told me that because of my high palate, it would a very unpleasant experience. He continued to say that had the work been done when I was a teenager, it would have been easier. He did not recommend that I proceed at this point in my life.

Thanks again, dad, how's the liver holding up?

Not surprisingly, my children will probably all need braces. W. has already been through phase one. He had braces for about a year, which were placed on the adult teeth that he has so far. They were then removed and he now wears a retainer.

That is, he wears it when I practically shove it into place.

He frequently forgets to put it in his mouth after eating. It drives me batty. I really have to go find my freshman high school picture.

I bet THAT will make him more willing.

Eyes

My daughter has the most interesting color eyes. They are a combination of both of her brother's eyes. The green that makes up most of the iris is from W. and the traces of brown surrounding the pupil are from T. I guess you could say her eyes are hazel.

Eyes, for me, are the first thing I notice on a person. They can say a lot about someone. You can show no emotion on your face, but your eyes can't seem to hide what you are feeling. They can be sad or they can smile.

They can also be terrifying. My father had those type of eyes. The ones that bore into you. Ones that looked at you, as he ranted, and made you stay put in your place. No matter how much you wanted to run and hide. I would stay planted where I stood, frozen. Sometimes for hours. And though I still don't understand it, his eyes always found mine. No matter who the target of his anger was directed at, he'd always make that contact with me. It still remains a mystery to me. It still makes me shiver.

I love my daughter's big, beautifully colored eyes. But every so often, a certain glance or expression will look at me, and for a split second, I will see him. It sends a chill up my spine.

I hate that he is a part of her. I hate that no matter how hard I try to keep him out of my life, he will always be there, in her eyes.

Have Times Really Changed?

Last week I was reading a post written by Tricia at Shout. After reading an Associated Press article about Raymond Daniel Thurmond, a Georgia man who was charged with holding his wife and four children captive in squalor for three years inside their mobile home, she posed a question to her readers.

Do we ignore our neighbors too much?

Her readers had much to say. Many were sickened and couldn't understand how this could go on for three years and not ONE neighbor noticed anything suspicious. Some believed that due to privacy issues, neighbors just don't want help. And others believed that we just do not have a sense of community these days. We no longer look after one another. The Village no longer helps raise the child.

This struck a deep chord with me.

There has always been abuse and neglect. That has never been different. We are just more exposed to these horrible stories because of our access to so many forms of media. We hear about it more often than we did years ago.

Now, that being said, I do agree that communities did exist that stood watch over one another. I believe those communities still exist in some places.

What I also believe is that there are many who, in the past and present, turned a blind eye toward unpleasant situations that did not directly concern them. People are afraid to get involved. They tell themselves that if they ignore it, it will go away. It won't be real.

What can they do anyway?

I grew up in a very abusive household. My father was an alcoholic. He was abusive in many ways to my mother. To my siblings. To me.

My father's family lived all around us. Literally. His parents, my grandparents, lived next door to us on the right. His aunt, uncle, and cousins lived in the other half of our house, a duplex, to the left.

The walls were not concrete. The sounds, I'm sure, carried. The yelling, the crying, the anger.

No one came. No one stopped him. No one protected the children. No ONE.

Bear With Me

I usually try to keep most of my posts on this blog light and humorous. I do sometimes have issues, as we all do, that I like to vent about. I have, however, never really talked much about my life as a child. I've never pulled any of my skeletons out of my closet and thrown them at you.

I'm finding the need to today. I must warn you, this may be a long post. I tend to ramble when my mind is filled with past memories. Forgive me.

I had a dream last night. It was about my father. In my dream, he died. I walked in to his wake and at the front of the room was his casket. It was open. Next to the casket were his three sisters, my aunts. They were nodding at well-wishers as they tried to speak through their tears.

I took a deep breathe and walked forward. I knelt down at the casket and made the sign of the cross. I stood up and moved toward my aunts. They all burst out crying and told me how sorry they were.

I looked at them with absolutely no emotion and said, "Thank you." I turned toward the door.

Walking out I heard gasps and whispering, "That's it?" "She's leaving?" "She didn't even shed a tear."

My Aunt B. chased me outside where she proceeded to give me a piece of her mind. "How can you be so cold!" "He's your father!"

Blah, Blah, Blah.

I just walked away and smiled at the sense of relief that washed over me.

I then woke up.

Did you ever have a dream so vivid it stays with you all day? Well, that was one of those dreams. It was so realistic. And the thing that is bothering me so much, is that I'm afraid that is exactly how I will one day react to the passing of my father.

My father and I are pretty much estranged. He calls maybe twice a year. Usually it's when he's had a few too many and must be feeling either lonely or guilt-ridden. The conversations usually revolve around him and last approximately 5 minutes.

Then I spend the next 2 days reeling from it. I resort back to the little girl I was when he was in total control. The girl he demeaned and abused. I long for the father I should have had.

It's easier keeping our distance.

I've kept him away from my children. Yes, he's met them. He has seen my oldest a few times in the past 10 years. Most times it has been at a funeral. He has seen my youngest child once, the day after she was born, where he also saw the middle child for the second time. The first time for him was also the day after he was born.

It's the way it needs to be. I will protect my children from all the harm he is capable of. No matter what it takes.

He was a horrible father. He destroyed my self-esteem and my self-worth. He left bruises; physically, mentally, and emotionally. He was abusive to my mother, which made me become her protector. It's a trait I wear to this day, it's one she should have possessed, to protect me and my siblings.

I hope every day that I have taken that hurt and turned it into strength. I do see some of my father in myself. I try to correct that.

I tell my children I love them instead of calling them names. I try nurturing them instead of tearing them down. I hug them instead of hit them. I respect them instead of use them.

And when I fail to do the right thing, I own up to it and make it right.

So, I am wondering. What is this dream? Is it a message? Am I to take something from it? Why is my subconscious showing me this?

My smile, it seemed so wrong in my dream. But then again, it is quite fitting.

The Irony

Yesterday I had my endoscopy done. Man, I want me some of that "conscious sedation" anesthesia! It was the best sleep I've had in months, beats the heck out of Ambien and Lunesta. And I only slept for about 20 minutes! I felt like I was out for hours.

Anyway, the doc said that I have Gastritis, that my stomach lining is a little inflamed. A little? All this pain I've been having and only a little? Not that I was hoping for any serious illness, but now I feel like I'm a big whus. He told me that it would heal. Ok, whatever.

The doctors are more concerned with other tests that have come back with questionable results. My B12 levels are borderline low. My family doctor wants me to have more blood work to check for Pernicious Anemia. I of course, looked it up on the internet, why do I do that to myself? It's not a good thing if left untreated. This Anemia can go hand in hand with Gastritis. It's most common in Scandinavians and Irish, which I am both.

Also, my liver enzymes are elevated so they want to check that. I have an ultrasound tomorrow. I have had blood tests to rule out any type of hepatitis. It may be a "fatty liver" which means I store extra fat there. Why wouldn't I have extra fat there? I've got extra fat EVERYWHERE else, why not there too. They may eventually have to biopsy. The doctor said, it doesn't happen often, but it can become "non-alcoholic cirrhosis".

On the way home from the procedure I said to Mr. Schmitty,

"Yea, wouldn't that be a kick in the f'ing teeth?"

"What?"

"He (my dad) had hepatitis in his 20's and was told never to drink because of the liver damage. He drinks like a fish for the next 40+ years and I'll get the f'ing cirrhosis!"

Story of my life.