There is a turkey thawing in my sink. Every time I walk past through the kitchen, I smile because I am remembering another turkey thawing in a sink almost 30 years ago. That first turkey caused a house fire, a ruined bed and blistered fingers. How could a harmless turkey cause such mayhem, you ask? It all started when my little brother pissed me off. I can't remember what terrible thing he did, but I'm sure it was very offensive and unforgivable. Because he was an asshole and ALWAYS pissing me off. That's what little brothers do, right?
I left the living room, where my dad and little brother were watching a Christmas movie, determined to show that little bastard exactly what I thought of him. I looked around the kitchen for a prop. Ah ha! The paper towels. I would rip a paper towel into a million little pieces and throw it into his face...this is what I think about you! The paper towels were hanging on the wall above the stove and as I was climbing down from the counter with a handful, I realized my idea was lame. I needed to make a bigger statement, I was really mad, you see. The gas burner on the stove caught my eye and in an instant, I decided that I would set the towels on fire. I was brilliant! (and evil, and probably in need of a psychiatrist) What I didn't anticipate is how fast those fuckers would burn. There was no way I could make it back to the living room with the burning paper towels. Actually, I needed to get rid of this fire ASAP because it was starting to burn my fingers and this was a really really bad idea after all. I should have stuck to my original million pieces of paper plan. I started towards the kitchen sink, but couldn't throw the towels in there, the turkey took up the whole sink. 6 year old logic told me to run through the spare bedroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom where I could safely extinguish the flames. Of course, I only made it as far as the bed before I dropped the paper towels. And...the bed caught fire. Holy Shit! I ran back to the living room, "Fire! Fire! The bed's on fire!" Unfortunately, my dad thought this was a ploy for attention and ignored me.
My Granny, however, jumped into action and was able to use the bedding and her new sweater to extinguish the bed. I was in SO much trouble. Until my dad saw the huge blisters on my fingers. "Don't be mad at her Ma", he said to my Granny as he slathered butter all over my hand. "She burned her fingers." Now I'm not sure what kind of logic that was, but it seemed to work. My Granny quit yelling and my dad, brother and I went back to watching our Christmas shows.
My dad did not know how to be a parent any more than I knew how to handle the jealousy that comes with being "not the favorite". Thankfully, as I matured, I stopped trying to find ways to show my brother just what I thought of him and learned to love him for the asshole that he was.
I wish I would have learned to love my dad for the emotionally crippled man that he was. I wish I could have accepted that his drug use and inability to be a father had nothing to do with me or my value as a person. But I was a little girl, a teenage girl, and then a young woman who craved something he couldn't give. I refused to accept his limitations and so I pushed him out of my life.
It's better this way, I told myself. If I can make him not exist, then I won't feel the pain of his inattention. So I pretended my father was dead, but when I cast him aside, a part of me died too. I just didn't realize it.
My brother called me on Christmas Eve. "Hey, your dad wants you to call him."
Of course, he has my phone number, but according to my brother, every time he has tried to call, he "chickens out".
"OK, I'll call him." One day. Eventually. Maybe.
But I keep walking through the kitchen and seeing that fucking turkey in the sink and remembering a bed in flames and butter on my fingers. And this really annoying voice in my head keeps telling me, "Your daddy loves you...he just doesn't show it in the ways YOU want him to. Maybe it's time to accept him for who he is...maybe it's time to FORGIVE." God, I hate that voice, but at least this time it's not telling me to set a bunch of paper towels on fire...
So I called him. And the conversation was filled with awkward silences and then we would both start talking at once...
How are the kids...how's your job...N just turned 18...I got to work a few days last week...how have you been...good, how have you been...do you ever come down this way...and then finally...
"I love you, sis."
"I love you too, Dad. Merry Christmas."
My Granny, however, jumped into action and was able to use the bedding and her new sweater to extinguish the bed. I was in SO much trouble. Until my dad saw the huge blisters on my fingers. "Don't be mad at her Ma", he said to my Granny as he slathered butter all over my hand. "She burned her fingers." Now I'm not sure what kind of logic that was, but it seemed to work. My Granny quit yelling and my dad, brother and I went back to watching our Christmas shows.
My dad did not know how to be a parent any more than I knew how to handle the jealousy that comes with being "not the favorite". Thankfully, as I matured, I stopped trying to find ways to show my brother just what I thought of him and learned to love him for the asshole that he was.
I wish I would have learned to love my dad for the emotionally crippled man that he was. I wish I could have accepted that his drug use and inability to be a father had nothing to do with me or my value as a person. But I was a little girl, a teenage girl, and then a young woman who craved something he couldn't give. I refused to accept his limitations and so I pushed him out of my life.
It's better this way, I told myself. If I can make him not exist, then I won't feel the pain of his inattention. So I pretended my father was dead, but when I cast him aside, a part of me died too. I just didn't realize it.
My brother called me on Christmas Eve. "Hey, your dad wants you to call him."
Of course, he has my phone number, but according to my brother, every time he has tried to call, he "chickens out".
"OK, I'll call him." One day. Eventually. Maybe.
But I keep walking through the kitchen and seeing that fucking turkey in the sink and remembering a bed in flames and butter on my fingers. And this really annoying voice in my head keeps telling me, "Your daddy loves you...he just doesn't show it in the ways YOU want him to. Maybe it's time to accept him for who he is...maybe it's time to FORGIVE." God, I hate that voice, but at least this time it's not telling me to set a bunch of paper towels on fire...
So I called him. And the conversation was filled with awkward silences and then we would both start talking at once...
How are the kids...how's your job...N just turned 18...I got to work a few days last week...how have you been...good, how have you been...do you ever come down this way...and then finally...
"I love you, sis."
"I love you too, Dad. Merry Christmas."