Daddy's Girl

On the Eve of my father's Birthday I am struck with a poignant, childhood memory of my relationship with my "Daddy".  One of my first memories of my dad is laden with so many senses.  I am sitting on the bathroom counter.  I couldn't have been more than two or three years old...Perched near the sink, legs crossed. I helped my father lather his face with sweet, silky shaving cream...I can still smell the clean soapy cream, and vividly remember how carefully I spread the white , fluffy, airy foam all over his face.  He would lean in close so I could "carefully" paint his stubbly cheeks, lip, and neck.  I then would sit and stare in amazement as he expertly whisked the razor across his face.  He then dipped the razor into a sink full of hot water, which I dipped my fingers in, watching the shaving cream float and then melt into the little pool. All the while he would listen to whatever I jabbered about as if it was the most important information he would ever hear.  I would ask him questions which I can no longer recall.  I'm sure they were earth shattering things like, "What are you going to do today?" "Do you love me as much as you love Susie?"  Each question was met with a constant, low reassuring tone.  To this day, when I call my dad, and, I often have frantic, earth shattering questions or concerns, I am met with the very same  comforting voice I heard as a child. The most recent memory is as poignant.  I called on the phone faced with an impossible situation.  I had to confess to him the most unbearable raw ugly truth that I had deceived my family and put them in financial peril.  The details are unimportant and the situation is well on it's way to being resolved.  It was absolutely the hardest thing I have ever or will ever have to do.  It is so easy to love your own children completely and unconditionally.  It is yet another to accept that kind of love from others.  Isn't it funny how we can marvel at our children's questioning our forgiveness yet we refuse to know in our hearts we are forgiven by our parents in the same fashion.  When I was finally able to choke the horrible words out of my mouth to my father's quiet listening ears there was no yelling, no silent disappointment.  There were tears.  Lots and lots of tears.  He was so sorry I felt I had to bear this alone.  He cried with me and for me.  It was the most reaffirming moment of parent child love I have ever experienced.  My Dad is far from perfect in his own life of failed endeavors and relationships.  He also is brilliant, funny, sensitive and proud.  Too proud to ask for help...gee I guess I come by that naturally.  Bursting with pride for his grandchildren and their accomplishments.  Proud of his children for simply being.  I am certain he doesn't see these wonderful qualities in himself because he is also terribly self deprecating.  I hope he will read this and know that I wouldn't be the parent I am if he weren't the wonderful dad he has been.  Happy Birthday Daddy.

Moments of Clarity

Moments of Clarity

Our individual realities are always shaped and formed by our varying circumstances and life experiences.  My sister had a profound effect on mine.

Growing up with an undiagnosed bipolar sibling was at the very least unpredictably terrifying.  Living with the reality that my parents were in total denial was devastating. 

From my earliest memory Susie emotionally hijacked our family.  I was sure the phrase “walking on egg shells” was coined expressly for us.  Susie was and still is one of the most intelligent, beautiful and funny people I know.  Her ability to turn a bad situation into something glorious was only predicated by her unpredictable, wildly aggressive temper.  One moment you were lured into laughing, smiling and letting your guard down.  Like a snake charmer she could will you to get comfortable, tell her your innermost secrets, ask you how you really felt about something personal and then SNAP!  It was an actual physical transformation.  Like a contortionist she took shape into another person.  Ugly, angry and venomous, she would strike out.  Using words and expletives beyond description she would verbally assault.  Physically her 5’3” 100lb stature changed into a hulk-like creature capable of taking down people 3 times her size. 

The undeniable fact that my sister suffers from a debilitating mental illness is not lost on me.  Her outbursts unprovoked and nonsensical were horrifying as a child yet my love for her always outweighed her episodes. I wanted so badly for her to

be the sister everyone else had.  The one who braided their hair, took them to the mall, helped them with boy problems.  I had glimpse of that sister.  She had moments of clarity.

She was fiercely loyal.  The one saying our family used still holds true.  “You definitely want her on your side and not against you”. 

Susie is the middle child.  A lot of her behaviors were written off to “being the middle child”.  I was so convinced that this was a viable reason that I was very concerned when I became pregnant for the third time that my middle daughter would be doomed to exhibit the same traits as my sister.

My brother, Lee, the oldest was usually the target for the more physical attacks.  He was under strict orders to NEVER hit a girl.  He was relegated to hitting the walls or doors in the hallway.  When we sold our home we spent an unusually large amount of money patching the drywall.  My clever mother mod-podged flowers cut out from existing wallpaper scraps on the holes in closet doors. 

Susie was great at psychological warfare.  She knew my brother hated peanut butter so everything she baked for home economics had peanut butter in it.  She didn’t eat any of her creations but she enjoyed torturing Lee by ruining any chance he had for eating yummy desserts.  Things would take “a turn for the worse” when Lee would ask her why she did that.  The result was usually a battle of words followed by punching and hitting, by my sister.  For me, it was the allure of “The Twilight Zone”.  It was a super scary TV show that was on Friday nights past my bedtime.  When my parents were out and Susie was babysitting me she would encourage me to watch the show promising a happy outcome.  The happy outcome never happened and Susie would then shut off the lights and chase me around in the dark.  Locking me in the hall closet was always an option too.

I'm not sure when or how the power shift happened from parent to child. 

I can hope and dream that somehow there's a special reason she's like this.  Maybe Motzart was like this.  Maybe her brilliance cannot be understood  or processed by me.  "Let go and let God" is given a whole new meaning when it comes to my sister.  It's so hard to stand by and watch someone seemingly unravel before your eyes and know there is not a thing you can do about it.  She won't allow it.  I just wait for the moments of clarity.