Okay, I’m pointing you back to Entry 3, “The Day I Grew Up,” posted May 14, 2010.
Review, refresh.
Ready? Here goes.
So, I drove Anna to go see Grandma this weekend. It’s a six-hour car trip. Alan came with us – went horseback riding with Uncle Lewis, and has declared himself a cowboy, and for a little while, he wanted to be called “Cowboy Alan.” But I digress (keeping up with the theme of Entry 3, heh).
So, Anna can be a bit judgmental at times. She’s 11. Of course she is. On the way back, she was talking about how sad she was she didn’t get to be there the day Dad died. They were beyond close; Dad had stepped up to the father role for her after my divorce, and prior to my remarriage. That’s the kind of guy Dad was, the kind of guy who stepped up. While Dad definitely had his fun, he always put the needs of his family before the wants of himself.
I explained to her how parents sometimes had to make hard choices, and that I made certain choices after I found out Dad was dying. I chose not to tell her, and I chose not to bring her back with me for the last day. Both were predicated on somewhat selfish reasons. As for not telling her? I knew I could barely keep myself going emotionally, there was no way I could provide her the comfort she needed on top of that. I was looking at a six-hour drive to take her and John home, I couldn’t drive, keep my head straight, and give her what she needed all at the same time. Plain and simple. As for not bringing her to the hospital? The same thing, except throw Mom and Laura in the mix. That’d be all of us in a room with a dying man, unable to keep anything under control. We barely kept things going as it was, we could not have handled Anna in that tiny little room with us, crying her eyes out. Plus, well, Dad was barely Dad anymore. He was basically comatose (although somewhat responsive, through hand squeezing anyway) and 60 - 70 pounds underweight. I did not want my daughter’s last memories of her granddad to be at the absolute worst moments of what remained of his life.
While she didn’t agree with my decision, she ultimately respected while I made it. The fact that I was crying through telling her this, and explaining how I couldn’t have helped Mom, helped Dad, helped Laura, kicked that f*cking counselor out of the room, and dried her eyes at the same time.
And now’s the part where I turn this story even MORE into “all about me” and my barreling weight. Although I suppose that is the overall purpose of this blog, isn’t it? So please don’t judge me a narcissist. I’ve met those. This isn’t it, this is introspection. Or do I protest too much? Hmmm….
Anyway, moving on. Something about talking about that day again, about crying while I described it, brought things back home to me. I already know that was the day I truly grew up. While it was the worst day of my life (and the worst day of several others’ lives in that room), it was the day I had to take control. I could not be the little girl relying on these adults anymore. I had to finally be an adult myself.
And it’s carried through. Since that day, I swear, I’m much more courageous (not fearless, that’s totally different). I keep my family fed and dressed, I put a toddler to bed at night, I make sure my daughter takes her medicine every morning, I’m better at my job, I’m better in a courtroom, I can take responsibility for a mistake at work, I can get our roof repaired, I can pay bills, I can direct a project, I can sue my ex for child support. I can do it all with a stoicism and grace, and a healthy dose of fun and attitude.
But when I was a kid, I could come home crying from a stressful day, I’d get a cookie, and all would be better. And when I’d be home alone if I felt rotten, I could eat a box full of brownies (meant for Dad, and I’d blame it on Lewis – I apologized to him for that this weekend, heh) and feel better. For a while, anyway. So by eating so much now, am I wanting to be that kid, that little person who didn’t have to be an adult, who could eat whatever the hell she wanted because there were always others to blame, always circumstances that drove me to it, always ways to shrug off the responsibilities of the world because as a child, I didn’t truly have any responsibilities yet?
But I’m a grown up now. I’m a mother. I’m a wife. I’m an attorney. I’m the one who had to kick the b*tch out of Dad’s room when she made my parents cry. Whether I should be or not, I’m a role model.
But some days, I really, really just don’t want to be.
I guess it’s not only time to have grown up, but to be a grown up. Dad stepped up. Time for me to do the same. Dad denied himself a lot for the sake of his family. Surely I can deny myself “comfort” food I know won’t ultimately be comforting.
