My husband and I stood back and admired our work: every dust-bunny was wrangled, the chaos under every piece of furniture was tamed, every scrap of fabric had been washed, fluffed, and replaced appropriately. We were ready to welcome my husband’s family to Thanksgiving in Louisville, our polished doors were open. Then, Sunday evening, as I parted my daughter’s hair for pigtails in preparation for my side of the family’s humble Thanksgiving dinner, I found lice.
The initial reaction was denial: that certainly wasn’t something moving in my child’s immaculate hair. But as I confirmed another case in my son’s head, the reaction transformed to shock: Shave their heads like the Nazis did to Jews in the concentration camps, I thought to myself as I began to compulsively scratch my own scalp and tear pillow cases from the newly made beds. My bathroom became the set of a bad-mother-movie scene as I herded my poor, naked children into an empty bathtub and demanded, “Don’t move, I’ll be right back!” Dashing out the door and down to the local pharmacy, I began to realize the host of repercussions from this outbreak: my son had had his first sleepover at our house the night before, so I had to call that mother; I’d have to alert both of their schools and we would be “that family” when the fliers went home in the backpacks; I’d have to tell the twenty guests traveling near and far for Thanksgiving that our house may continue to give long after the turkey carcass, and I’d have to clean my entire house, again.
I stood in the pharmacy’s consultation line, furiously scratching my own scalp from paranoia, pacing with impatience, practicing a newfound bounty of tics I’d adopted in the past 10 minutes. I think the pharmacist was ignoring me as I’m sure I resembled a junky looking for a fix. Nope, just a mom with the first outbreak of head lice (easily confused). When I explained our problem he was kind and reassuring, his kids and grandkids had all gone through this too, and pointed me to the treatment aisle. “They’re persistent little fellas,” he yelled as I was leaving. “Good luck!”
It was then that I began to question my faith. I’m not particularly religious, but really think God gets a kick out of testing our family before Thanksgiving, our favorite of the holidays. One year, our gas line that fuels our gas stove (a necessary component to preparing a feast unless you know Squanto) went out two days before T-Day. This year He’d (She’d never do that) broken our washer Sunday morning and sent a plague of lice upon our house by Sunday evening. Customary to the past holiday catastrophes, my husband and I tackled this hurdle with beautiful marital synergy. I preened the heads, a laborious and back-breaking process as you hunch over squirming children’s manes searching for minuscule nits (the term “nit-picking” has taken on a whole new meaning) hours every day, in such a meticulous fashion I am now destined to be a premature hunchback. My husband repaired the washer and helped me conquer the house and every scrap of fabric in it, again.
Neither of us practiced our hobbies of micromanaging (mine) or emotional tantrums (his); we worked in perfect stoic unison to complete the incredible task at hand. The groceries are finished, the wine is breathing...Thanksgiving--bring it on!
Friday, June 17, 2011
You're the Man, Dad
I've crossed paths with a variety dads in my life: one devoted, one distant, and one MIA. I never knew my own biological father and the evidence of his existence was sparse and unspoken, so I created my own version of this apparition-like DNA that aided in my conception. As a teenager, I'd sneak outside to smoke a cigarette, stare up at the sky, and conduct a heart-to-heart with the dad I never knew. He looked like Willie Nelson, or so I imagined, and had a road-weary, soft voice that gave me mountains of concise advice. He chose his words carefully, was reflective and had those deep blue eyes that showed the contents of his character.
If my imaginary dad was Willie, the step-dad that raised me was Dick Cheney. Conservative, thorough, and reliable, yet stern and detached, he'd leave me messages on post-it notes as his form of communication: "Check your oil" or "Lock the barn". These were the tidbits of advice thrown my way in perfectly proportioned handwriting. He always helped me with the enigmatic algebraic equations that gave me trouble and was the financier for most of my needs. But most needs, the ones that really matter in the long run between a father and daughter, aren't met through money. And this is where my reliable, yet devastatingly distant step-dad faltered. As a young female, I wanted above all else to feel loved, unconditionally, and to be told how worthy I was. To see pride in a daddy's eyes.
Somehow, someway, despite the fair to middling examples of fatherhood evident in my genealogy, I hit the jackpot with my husband. He was the third son born in a family of eight children, so family values are intrinsic. To be honest, he's a much better parent than I am--always sacrificing, patient, and active. After a hard day at work, he runs in the house and wrestles with the kids on the carpet or sprays them with the hose--he always has time to play with the kids, not just conduct the mundane tasks of parenting, but truly enjoys them and they know it. What makes him the best father I've ever known is that look in his eyes when he interacts with our children; you can't fake that, you can't buy that kind of love. There is no doubt in my mind my son will be a great father because of his example and my daughter will not seek love in unworthy suiters, because she has a beautiful specimen of a man to compare all the rest to.
For this Father's Day, I'm not buying another meaningless gift. I'm going to give my husband the gift he always seems to ask for--recognition. Whenever my husband drives ten hours straight to the beach or repairs a catastrophe in the basement, he always asks, "Who's the man?" This Sunday in my house is going to be the "You're the Man Day" because it takes a lot to be a great one. Anyone who has had a father, brilliant or brutal, understands the significance of this role. But, when the unsurmountable to-do list obstructs the view of just how awesome dads can be, they get taken for granted. Not this Sunday though, we're having a full day of appreciation and gratitude for the love, the strength, the loyalty, and the joy you bring into our life. Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there that make a difference. You're the man.
If my imaginary dad was Willie, the step-dad that raised me was Dick Cheney. Conservative, thorough, and reliable, yet stern and detached, he'd leave me messages on post-it notes as his form of communication: "Check your oil" or "Lock the barn". These were the tidbits of advice thrown my way in perfectly proportioned handwriting. He always helped me with the enigmatic algebraic equations that gave me trouble and was the financier for most of my needs. But most needs, the ones that really matter in the long run between a father and daughter, aren't met through money. And this is where my reliable, yet devastatingly distant step-dad faltered. As a young female, I wanted above all else to feel loved, unconditionally, and to be told how worthy I was. To see pride in a daddy's eyes.
Somehow, someway, despite the fair to middling examples of fatherhood evident in my genealogy, I hit the jackpot with my husband. He was the third son born in a family of eight children, so family values are intrinsic. To be honest, he's a much better parent than I am--always sacrificing, patient, and active. After a hard day at work, he runs in the house and wrestles with the kids on the carpet or sprays them with the hose--he always has time to play with the kids, not just conduct the mundane tasks of parenting, but truly enjoys them and they know it. What makes him the best father I've ever known is that look in his eyes when he interacts with our children; you can't fake that, you can't buy that kind of love. There is no doubt in my mind my son will be a great father because of his example and my daughter will not seek love in unworthy suiters, because she has a beautiful specimen of a man to compare all the rest to.
For this Father's Day, I'm not buying another meaningless gift. I'm going to give my husband the gift he always seems to ask for--recognition. Whenever my husband drives ten hours straight to the beach or repairs a catastrophe in the basement, he always asks, "Who's the man?" This Sunday in my house is going to be the "You're the Man Day" because it takes a lot to be a great one. Anyone who has had a father, brilliant or brutal, understands the significance of this role. But, when the unsurmountable to-do list obstructs the view of just how awesome dads can be, they get taken for granted. Not this Sunday though, we're having a full day of appreciation and gratitude for the love, the strength, the loyalty, and the joy you bring into our life. Happy Father's Day to all the dads out there that make a difference. You're the man.
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