innocent and sweet and fun

I’ve always hated holidays. When I was a kid my mother made a big fuss on birthdays and Christmas. She would decorate, make a cake, plan gifts. But it was a lie. Our home was bleak and angry and violent. My mother would be in bed when I left for school and in bed when I got home. In her nightgown for days. Or she would be gone when I got home. She would be absent and then suddenly angry. Always at me. Then the perfect holidays. She made me bring her tea on a tray in bed. It had to be the way she liked it. Half-and-half in a little blue and white pitcher. But it was just a matter of time before something ruined the day. Something failed to be perfect. Then it was my fault.

But one of Tina’s amazing qualities is loving and creating beautiful holidays. Every birthday is special. Thoughtful, beautiful, delightful. But for years, especially after the church blowup when I was depressed, I dreaded every event. For two years I had a migraine on EVERY holiday. But, the events are so good and the children are so wonderful that they have been winning me over. For a while I hated them AND loved them. Smiling through the migraine. Seeing that my people are precious and being glad they were happy, but suffering myself. Yesterday we celebrated the twins’ 10th and it was perfect. Not the perfect show of my childhood, but real perfect. Innocent and sweet and fun. Bobbing for apples. Soccer with the neighbors. A piñata in the shape of a kiwi. Smiling children. I loved it.

sulking in the back seat

When Drew was 13 I used to take him with me whenever I went out somewhere in the car. Sometimes, he would sit in the back seat and sulk. Refuse to even speak. I would joke with him, try to plan part of the outing he would like. I would talk to him as if he wasn’t sulking and try to draw him out of it. He would just glare at me in the mirror. I couldn’t understand it. I grew up without a father. Drew had a nice father who wanted to be with him, but he didn’t know it. He treated me like an enemy.

At the same time, Siri was 11 and LOVED to go anywhere with me. She was cheerful, talkative and happy. Same dad, same car, same situation.

Drew got over it, but I think I’m still doing it. Sulking in the back seat, not knowing how to enjoy. Not knowing that I am loved and could be happy. I’m trying really hard to change.

it slips away

I found my father’s briefcase in the basement. Musty black leather. Inside, his perfect block lettering. Drawings he made. He drew so well. Some part of me longs to be like him. Which part draws me? Alcoholism? Wife battering? Abandoning his kids? Suicide? Some part of me misses him and wants to be like him. I don’t have any bad feelings toward him. I’ve never been angry with him or felt any judgement toward him.

And then there is me. I do something good, something kind, something smart, and I feel good. For ten minutes. An hour. Then it slips away and I’m sick of myself again. My easiest emotional reaction to myself is condemnation. It is so easy to judge myself. Lazy. Fat. Stupid. Boring. My brain tries to tell me I am a good father, a good husband. Interesting. But some part of me wants to suffer. It crushes me. Ruins my sleep. Follows me everywhere I go and judges everything I do. Not creative enough. Doesn't matter. Pathetic. I deserve to suffer. But I don’t know why. My brain sees that my father failed. That I am succeeding in many ways, but it doesn’t reach the part of me that hates me. If it were anyone else judging themselves so cruelly I would be kind to them. I would tell them they were good. Brilliant. Wonderful. Why am I the only one in the world that doesn’t deserve any kindness? I don’t know what to do about it.