jaysaint Getting it all down on paper…

Alden’s robot family:

Rody Pony Approves

Life is not returning to normal, but it is creaking back into motion. In a few hours I’ll leave for a short business trip, which will put me out of range of husbandly hands, toddler kisses and silky baby hair. I’ve gotten a lot of those things in the past few weeks, so I know I can ride that wave for 2.5 days.

I’m confronted lately with the pleasant challenge of using up a pile of vacation time. We’re going to Disney in September, but I have a few more weeks at my fingertips. It seems I am now the owner of my family’s cabin by the lake in Kentucky. So we’ll go spend some time there next month and then maybe take a tour of the area that involves a stay at Wigwam Village and visits to Mammoth Cave, Dinosaur World and Kentucky Down Under.

I’m not actually the owner of my family cabin yet. I have yet to file my father’s will in probate court. There’s no one but me, so I don’t know what the rush would be. There’s so much paperwork around a death. If I hadn’t just done this two years ago I would be shocked by all the faxing. Every action I take feels like I’m erasing my Dad from the world just a little bit. It’s cumulative. I’m slowly relegating him to the past. So it makes sense that I’m in no hurry. Everything I wanted from his aparment is in his car, which is in my garage. I’ll open it when I’m ready. Everyone who must know does know. The government knows. I stopped his pension. Those things got done pronto, not because I am being efficient but because my Dad left me a note telling me to do that right away. It came complete with phone numbers, employee ID number, passwords, names. Anything I might need. I hope that I can continue to take care of my kids once I’m gone. What a badge of honor for a parent. The first thing in that letter was “Don’t freak out” and I have clung to that many times in the last weeks when freaking out was exactly what I wanted to do, even though it would not have served me.

I’d like to move away from that fixed point in time where I lost my Dad. I don’t deny its collosal, ongoing effect. I just want to force it to share space with the 70 years that came before.

I got an email from an old CNN friend who wrote, “Remember when your Dad sent all your Christmas presents in a cab?” What’s shocking is that I didn’t, until that moment. My Dad did so many funny things, made so many lovely gestures, that something great could get lost in the shuffle. It wasn’t even when I was a kid, I was at least in my late 20s. He lived in Kentucky and I was in Cincinnati visiting my Mom and Jerry. Dad never fought to have me on a holiday, at least not after his divorce. (My stepmother had a lot of twisted ideas about what was right and what was owed.) He didn’t really care about dates. But that year I was talking to him on the phone on Christmas Eve and he suddenly decided he wanted me to have my gifts on Christmas Day. It normally wasn’t unusual for me to get them around March. I told him that was sweet, but it didn’t matter and wasn’t even possible anyway. And then a few hours later a confused cab driver showed up at my Mom’s house with a back seat loaded with wrapped parcels.

No one in my life is apt to lavish me with such grand gestures and that is just too damn bad.

Today was my Dad’s service. Funeral.

It is not blazing any new territory to say that the dissonance is severe. Most people, even those who truly loved him, will pick up their lives tomorrow and move forward. I will too, for that matter. But every impulse I have goes along the lines of “Wait! We left my Dad behind. In the past. We need to go get him.”

My kids will never know a Grandpa. The losses keep layering over themselves. I will never get another big bouquet of Valentine’s Day roses from him. I didn’t get a chance to ask him how to handle a stressful work situation. I can’t mail him anymore books.

I can’t do this. Except that I have to.

I lost my beloved Dad this week. I avoid telling people as each time it cements the reality. This is me trying to accept, to acknowledge the truth.

Sunday night Alden said to me, “I pushed a kid today.”
I said, “Yeah, I know. That wasn’t a good thing to do.”
He said, “But I got him out of my way.”
I said, “But when you push it makes other kids sad. And it makes them not want to play with you.”
He said, “But… I got him out of my way.”

Out of my way!

Monday Damon took Alden to the park where they met up with a friendly two-year-old, S.

S said, “Sometimes I get scared.” and then “I need a light and Daddy sings to me.”
Alden replied, “Sometimes me get scared and I say (sweeping arm motion) EVERYBODY OUT OF MY WAY!”

Seriously! Out of my way!

Furthering my suspicion that he might have felonious white-collar leanings is his pushing technique. He’ll tent the fingers of one hand and place them squarely on the other kid’s chest. Then he’ll give a tiny shove. Not enough to knock anyone down. Just enough to send a message. The only exception is if he’s pushed first. Then he responds with extreme prejudice.

Small, but mighty

It’s possible that he inherits this behavior. It could be that one of his parents was (maybe is) known to be a bossy pants. She (or he) might have been known to go to friends’ houses and tell them who could play on their swing sets.

When he’s not harassing other kids, though, he’s a sweet pea. Just tonight he threw himself unto the breach in order to prevent Mr. Hippo from making Hippo Chow of Elliot (a frequent risk to the baby around here). Maybe we can hope for simple middle management.

Hey! Cookie!