Moments

Last night, with no power and rain streaming down, once again, my hands loosely grip an overdue glass of wine. All I wanted to do was unwind.  I had a long day. I did not want to listen. I did not want to speak. I did not want to pay attention to the constant babbling of my child. Being in the dark, with all the regular noises of the day, like TV, computer and video games, gone, I realize, I am his only audience but tonight, I am not up for the job of entertaining. As I put my hands to my face, I ask him to please find something to do. Something that does not require anything of me. To which he replies there is nothing to do without electric and he carries on about how bored he is. At this very moment, I am thoroughly enjoying being bored. My wine and my candle are keeping me company. I merely shake my head and take another sip. Some children are relentless. I have such a child.  As I turn away from the candle I have been staring at for far too long, I finally look in his direction. I was just about to ask him if he wanted to play cards because that requires little concentration and functioning of my brain cells and it will keep him occupied. Before I can open my mouth, he says, “I have an idea”. Great! I impatiently wait for the questions he has taunted me with since we got home. “Can we wrestle, Mom. What are you afraid? Are you a chicken? Don’t want your 12 year old to kick your butt?” But instead, this is what I hear. “Mom, would you like it if I would read to you”?  Sometimes little blessings creep in at the exact moment we need them most. I simply said, “Most definitely”.

Mattie, with candle in hand, runs to his bookshelf and brings back Ink heart, a book I bought him last Christmas and he settles on the couch to read to his mother. To be honest, I cannot tell you what the story was about but I was absolutely captivated by a 12 year old boy. I didn’t think it was possible to love my child any more but as I sat there, the words spilled out over each page, pouring life into me.  His voice was like liquid to me, soothing every part of my tired heart. I felt my sadness subside for a moment and for the first time in a long time, I felt joy. I don’t know if it was in my eyes but somehow this amazing child knew exactly what his mother needed. We have an unusual connection. This I know. I can’t explain it. I was a single mother for 8 years and for so long, all we knew was each other. And now, it was just me and him, me, listening and him, reading. The teacher of words and pronunciation was now the student and all I could do was smile from the inside out. We were the Two Musketeers again and nothing could have been more perfect. It seems in the busyness of our everyday lives, these special times are few and far between. And now, as the clock on the wall ticks by, I realize that soon this moment will be gone, so I drink it in and treasure every second of it. I sit quietly and simply watch him. He dives in to this book I long thought he had forgotten about. His voice is light and articulate as he tries his best to take me on this incredible adventure with him. As I close my eyes, all I can think is God, how I love this child. And how I love this moment.

Small but Beautiful Things

I love reading a great book, writing, playing the violin & the piano, dancing around the house, singing at the top of my lungs, dark chocolate, red wine, looking at the moon, picking lilacs, taking walks with Mattie, talking to my Nana, wishing on stars, secrets, shooting my bow, tiaras, playing in the garden,  Tinkerbell, my 2 doggies, shooting hoops with Matt, martinis with 4 olives, karaoke, summer bonfires, girls night out, snow ball fights, kissing, belting out Nickleback in the car, Harold & The Purple Crayon, whispering, scratches, laughing with pea pod, learning Italian, yard sales with Mom, The Zipper, Tucson,  my wonderful and loyal posse, my amazing family, taking the long way home, the beautiful little boy God blessed me with, playing Twister, "Arbor" nights with Lori, crosswords, Matthew's laughter, jogging until I can't breathe, Christmas morning, dragonflies, a cold beer, my kitties, apple trees, sunsets, my stuffed monkey, cool hats, pretty shoes, pasta, Harley’s, flying, Las Vegas, painting, eating popcorn and watching a great movie, Jaeger shots, Mimosa Sundays, West Palm Beach, thunderstorms, lying in a hammock, wearing a daisy in my hair, walking on the beach, the ballet, pickles, ice pops, cows, fresh cut grass & the smell of the earth right after it has rained. These are just a few of the things that I love or at the very least make my heart smile. They are small but beautiful things.

Daddy Dearest

Michael Levine once wrote, “Having children makes you no more a parent than having a piano makes you a pianist.” His words echo in my ear each and every time I hang up the phone after speaking with my father. I call him my father because technically that is who he is. But in simpler terms, he is a sperm donor, a birth parent, a genetic twist of biology and fate that I was somehow dealt. I can simplify his title by using one little but powerful word: absent. One would think after having 40 years to adjust my sails to this reality, the sting of his rejection would lessen.  But in truth, it hasn’t. It slaps me in the face with an open hand every time. I have done my best over the years to give this man, whom I hardly know, the benefit of the doubt. I imagine his life was not exactly the path of happiness and ease, yet it’s the bed he made. Only he refused to sleep in it. If not for his alcoholism, maybe he would have been different. Maybe he would have chosen the path of parenthood instead of merely planting his seed and putting on his running shoes. Every time I think that it’s “me” that he didn’t want, I am reminded that he did not just abandon me but also my brothers. He assisted in bringing four living, breathing, healthy children into this world and didn’t stick around long enough to raise any of us. So, intellectually I know that it’s not me, it’s not Jenny that he did not want. He didn’t want any of us. He was not capable of the kind of love and sacrifice it takes to raise children. I am not even sure that as he sits alone now, in his sixties with no family around him, if he has yet learned the art of loving something beyond himself. I guess that is why I hang on. I have the compassion and love for him that he has never been able to extend to me. To picture him dying alone is too much for this daughter to bear. So, I do my best to close the gap, to somehow connect a non-existent bridge between his world and mine. My brothers have long since given up hope of having him be anything more than an unfortunate reality. But for some reason, I do not have the strength to turn my back on him.

Maybe it is selfish of me but I call my father every couple months merely to remind him that he has a daughter and no matter how he tries to deny me, I will not let him. I also reassure him of how much I love and miss him. I have never quite come to terms with what it is I miss about him or even love about him but I guess it’s the idea of the kind of father I wish he had been, rather than the kind of father he actually was, or wasn’t. I assure myself that I am not being spiteful in reminding him of what he walked away from but I suppose in some small way, I want him to hurt. I want him to know an ounce of the pain I have endured in his absence. But the truth is, I only step into his reality for a few moments and then I am gone again. I doubt thoughts of me linger past the hanging up of his phone. I have learned to be a bit braver than I have been in the past. I don’t usually cry anymore over him. I no longer expect phone calls just to check in with me. I no longer expect cards for Christmas’ or birthdays. I no longer expect him to ask about the grandchild he has had no relationship with. Maybe all he wishes is for me to leave him at peace with the notion that I don’t love him and that I curse the day he left but I cannot muster up the strength to let him be.  The little girl in me wishes to tell him how broken and bruised I have been over the years. I long to tell him what my childhood was truly like without him but the truth stares me in the face, knowing full well that possibly my life would not have been any better with him in it. I have repeated all the “what if’s in my head and I am left with no answer. Would my life have been less abusive, less painful had he chosen to stay? I don’t truly know. Maybe it would have opened a far bigger wound. To wrap my mind around such a fact is far too great and wide for me to understand.

Each time I talk to my father, I tell myself that it will be the last time. I will refuse contact with him unless the first step is made by him. But again, I fall short and give in to this overwhelming need to be loved by him. It’s an addiction of sorts, like alcohol. It takes over the body without you even knowing it. Except with alcohol, the hangover only lasts a day or so. This has lasted a lifetime.

Sometimes the hardest part of my fathers’ absence is to explain to my own child where his grandfather is and why he chooses not to see him. It’s something I have been very up front and honest with Matthew about. There is simply no lie or excuse that would explain it away. I tell him that there are good daddies in the world and there are not so good daddies. Unfortunately I was issued the not so good kind. Thankfully Matthew will never know this kind of pain, even if he is a child of divorce. His father takes an active role in his upbringing and the love between them is evident. So to explain to him why my father doesn’t want me or him has been a difficult process. I think he understands more as he gets older. Mattie keeps a picture of him and my father on his bulletin board, a small reminder that at one time, he felt love from this man. It’s a picture of them at a beach in North Carolina. Mattie can’t be more than 5 years old. Those are the memories he chooses to hold on to. I can’t say as I blame him. But as time passes, he asks about his grandfather less and less and my last conversation with my father, Matthew refused to even speak with him. I mouthed the words, “do you want to speak to Grandpa”? He simply shook his head and closed the door to his room. Matthew is smart; smarter than me. He knows when enough is enough. I do not. I keep picking at the scab the moment the wound has healed. And with raw skin bared again, comes the pain that I don’t think I will ever be free of.