In what seems to be a pattern, I was working late tonight. Again.
My oldest daughter was home with the other three kids, and they seemed to be doing okay. But when I informed her how late I was going to be and that I couldn’t make dinner. I wasn’t able to transfer funds into her account and she’d have to either do PB&J . . . which apparently wasn’t what she wanted to do . . .
I told her there was hamburger in the freezer, buns in the cupboard, and chips in the pantry. Now . . . hamburgers are not the most difficult thing in the world to make. Shape a patty, little salt, little pepper, throw them in the pan, fry the hell out of them.
She didn’t want to do that.
On more than one occasion Abbi’s made the comment like her mother used to make: “I feel sorry for a guy who ends up with me. I can’t cook anything!”
But she’s wrong. She can sing, just like I can. She’s smart, like all her siblings and relatives. She can do this . . . the difference is she doesn’t want to do it. That’s a big thing.
There are some things that she needs to prepare for before leaving out into this big, bad, world, and she’s about to get the lessons my mother gave me. You don’t have to be Julia Child to eat. But you should know how to do two things:
One comfort food: maybe a roast, or chicken noodle soup or just hamburgers.
One fancy meal: that’s dealer’s choice. But at some point – and I’ve told her I don’t want to know when it happens – she’s going to invite a guy over for dinner and she won’t be able to fake cooking it. Not really.
So I’m working on getting her to learn some basic culinary skills. She can make cookies. She made freaking cake pops one day.
It’s not lack of knowledge or ability, it’s simply that she doesn’t want to do it.
I’ll be honest, I didn’t cook a lot when I was her age. My Mom forced me to learn in my senior year of high school and I’m glad I did. In college, living in an apartment, I lived on Clearly Canadian drinks and Old El Paso chimichangas. But every once in awhile I got hungry for cookies . . . and I made them. I made my grandma’s cinnamon rolls – and they were a hit with the members of my band, my work, and eventually my girlfriend and her roommates. They were insanely unhealthy, but I was cooking to impress, not to be healthy.
So this weekend, I’m forcing Abbi to cook. Whether she likes it or not.
You need to learn to cook a meal, folks. At least one!
If you talk to most real estate agents, you’ll be told how much they hate family photos and mementos hanging about, on the walls, propped up on the bookshelf. I never understood how having indications that you’re comfortable enough in where you are that you’ve made this part of your family; part of your life.
I always liked a line from an old Genesis song (I know, Phil critics, but I always thought he was insanely talented and oddly poetic, Susudio aside), even though it’s a lyric in a strangely creepy song. “Scenes of unimportance, photos in a frame, things that go to make up a life.”
To anyone else who walks into our home, looks on the wall, sees the photos hanging up, there’s no indication that there’s anything different. I hung up our family photos, the pictures taken by our friend who has a business called Photographer in the Family (her link is on the top of this blog) dotted throughout the house. It’s a snapshot of our lives, a rare moment without exhaustion after the twins were born, even Andrea smiling after half her face suffered paralysis by the virus attacking her nerves.
I worry about what happens next. Every day it’s like we grow a little stronger and our memory of Andrea grows a little weaker. We’ve managed so many major events in our lives, it seems like it’s impossible that in 3 short days it will be 8 months since we lost her.
We made it through her birthday, a day that was always unnerving for me anyway, but the next big holiday, the one that Andrea did up brilliantly every year is tomorrow: Thanksgiving. I’m having the dinner at our house, cooking the turkey, making my Mom’s famous dressing, all of it. But I ache as I make all these preparations because I know it’s not going to be the same, it just can’t be. I can put out the china, I can make the food (I always did anyway, no change there) but it’s her presence, that essence of Andrea that was always so pervasive in the holiday that’s gone.
Years ago, in that little house in Omaha, we had everyone over. My family, Andrea’s, her best friend, so many people that we put all the leaves in our dining room table. So many that you couldn’t get through the dining room to the kitchen, you had to go out the front door, around to the back yard and enter the kitchen by the back door. It was a crazy, mixed-up holiday, but it was beautiful. She had the table wrapped in gold, off-white candles burning with gold bows around their holders and white flowers on the table. Abbi was tiny, sitting in a chair at the table but so small you could barely see her above the level of the wood. It was insane, cramped and perfect.
Now we have to face these holidays without her. I’ve had to face them without her. The person who helped plan all these events, that woman’s touch to those scenes of unimportance, is missing. She’s not here to make the room bright. She hasn’t been for the major events this year.
Just a couple weeks after she died, I had to celebrate the boys’ birthday. I had no idea how I’d get through that day, particularly since Andrea was always so integral, so brilliant at coming up with ideas for their birthdays. In the end, I chose to have a simple party, just our family, their cousins and Aunt coming over. I didn’t want them to have to deal with everyone acting awkward and crazy and insensitive on what was supposed to be their day. They’d only just gotten back to school after the funeral and were dealing with everyone handling them with kid gloves. Nobody knows what to do, not that I blame them, when they see someone with such a senseless loss. Perhaps the better adjective is inexplicable?
There’s simply no explanation to why something like this could happen. Andrea didn’t get someone so angry they killed her. This wasn’t a stalker; not an ex-boyfriend; no drugged out oxycontin hooked thief shooting her for narcotics. She died in a hospital of an infection. One day she was here and the next, quite literally, she was gone, leaving the 5 of us to try and figure it all out.
People don’t know what to do, we don’t fit into one of their neat, easy categories. It frustrates them that we don’t fit into the box. Andrea wasn’t murdered, so they can’t be horrified. She didn’t have cancer so they can’t pronounce their support for a cure. She didn’t jump off a bridge so they can’t discuss her personal demons. Never mind him, he’s just the guy who lost his wife. Never mind them, they just lost their mom.
He’s a single parent now. That fits. Put him in that box.
We have a family friend whom I have gotten much closer to since Andrea passed away. The reason being that she faced the same thing – she lost her husband. She’s light years ahead of where I am now, physically, emotionally, mentally even, but has been invaluable in understanding the frustration and madness. She told me something I think is the most brilliant and insightful thing I’ve ever heard.
We aren’t single parents.
Do you get why that is? Those two words: “single parent” have a completely different connotation. In today’s society it implies choice. It implies that my four children are the product of a marriage that fell apart because the husband and wife couldn’t get along and it broke apart their home. It implies that there was a choice made, a thought-out decision based on the actions of two people.
I’m not a single parent. I didn’t choose this. I certainly didn’t want it. We may have had our problems, the valleys to our hills in the path of our lives, but at no point were we on the verge of divorce. I spent every waking moment they would allow in that hospital. I took care of her when she was sick. I clenched my teeth when she would get upset for what I thought were pointless reasons. I failed her on nearly every birthday. But I never thought about leaving her.
No, I’m not a single parent. I’m their Dad. I’m their parent. Out of the box.
What I worry about now isn’t planning the events or even making them happen. I can get a birthday party to happen. I can cook Thanksgiving dinner, maybe even decorate the table and make a nice presentation. No, I’m not worried about the event itself, I’m worried about what getting through that event or holiday means. I’ve told you before that I loved the Fall with Andrea. Each event, particularly Thanksgiving and the upcoming Christmas, prove not only that we can do this without her, it shows that we can. I have to do it, but I absolutely hate it.
We have these holidays because they’re supposed to be our family, but our family’s different now.
No longer do I look up and see those pictures and see them as scenes of unimportance. They’re not just photos in a frame – but they are the things that go to make up a life. Our life. It’s a snapshot of so much promise, so much foresight and anticipation.
We think of these things and those times and realize that the life we were seeing in those moments is not the life we’re living now. We keep those photos in the frames to remind us of how wonderful it was when she was around.
I can only hope that someday we can add to them, putting other pictures on the wall, the scenes of a different life.
I can only hope that we can have that anticipation again without the kids feeling like they are just so many scenes of unimportance.