Helplessly Devoted to You!

     I wish I had taken a picture of my just turned ten-year-old learning to cut his meat for the first time. Not only did he saw at it like a novice lumberjack, he risked slicing his palm open by holding the sharp side of the blade up. Of course, his dad and I corrected him and demonstrated how to do it properly, resulting in the blade turned right-side down but still hacking away at it.
     But I learned a lesson while teaching him the proper way to cut his meat. His dad and I have done too much for him. We have skated around teaching him basic life skills through avoidance, impatience, or  just downright laziness. In turn, he has exploited our reluctance to make him independent, enjoying letting us do everything for him. I mean it's basic kid nature to do as little as humanely possible, unless its a fun activity like gaming or playing outside with friends. If I didn't have to adult all the time, I'd love for someone to cut my meat, hang up my clothes, and pick up after me too.
     Now our first born son is very intelligent. Not only does he excel at school, he knows how to play up his helplessness. When asked to do a new task like putting his laundry in the washing machine and turning it on, he will first try the tantrum tactic. You know, the high-pitched whine making the dogs four blocks away howl in discomfort with an added stomp of the foot or pout. And if mom, somehow isn't moved by this pathetic display of small human misery, he will opt for tactic number two - complete ineptitude. In this second attempt, he will hit random buttons on the washing machine despite being told to pull the knob out. He will vainly reach for the laundry detergent and moan and groan as he shows me he's too short to reach. After I tell him to fetch a step stool, he will then pour too much detergent in the cup, and fall down in a melted heap when I try to correct his mistakes. He's mastered helplessness. And sometimes, I fail too and let him, angrily completing whatever crappy task he mucked up.
     Now in my defense, I am a product of my environment too. Mothers of the millennium have babied their DD's and DS's, mind-washed or peer-pressured into letting them out of chores so they can experience an organic, happy, carefree childhood free of responsibilty or some other b.s.. Or I do it for him because like most modern parents, I am in a rush and it's so much faster to tie the bleeding shoe lace or pick out a matching outfit for my seven-year-old than to take the time to teach him to do it for himself. I failed them and myself. And now I am cleaning up the mess and trying to teach them some independence.
     Now, I grit my teeth and show my oldest again how to push the corn onto his fork with his knife, instead of letting him pick up the remaining pieces with his fingers. Mind you, he tried pushing the corn from the fork to the knife and nearly stabbed himself in the lips with the pointy end. I stop and make him tie and then retie his shoes when he did it too loose the first time. He picks out his own clothes and sometimes they match, and sometimes I don't care. He empties the dishwasher, sometimes making me question why he thinks my measuring cups go in the cabinet with the popcorn buckets. But he's doing things on his own, even if makes mistakes.
     I read somewhere that a lot of kids don't do chores anymore because parents either fear of can't handle when they do a craptacular job. It's part of the learning curve. Yes, he half-asses his job of vacuuming the family room and has to do it again. Certainly, he puts his pillow cases on inside out sometimes. But he crawled before he walked too. And I'm certainly stumbling on my own wobbly toddler feet through parenthood. But we are learning together.

Hanging on Between the Poles - Life with a Bi-Polar Dad

     I preface this piece by acknowledging that my dad suffered more that I ever did. I understand the problems with his mental illness and am sorry he had to experience any of it. This is just my side of swinging between the maniac and depressed states with him.

     Just as there are two sides to being bi-polar, there's also two groups being affected by the disease, the afflicted and their loved ones. One side rides the frenetic rollercoaster of highs and lows. The other side watches or goes along for the ride.
     I don't blame my dad for his illness, heck he never even acknowledged to me that he even had bi-polar disorder. But spoken or unspoken, it affected our relationship. I lived too far away to be a daily spectator. Too far to even help him if he'd have let me. But during those times I did spend with him, I jumped on board and rode the rollercoaster too.
     Most of my childhood, I felt like I had two distinct dads. One possessed maniac energy. His joy infected me, a happy virus of playfulness and enthusiasm. He loved music and food and exploring new things. Everything was the best thing ever. During his maniac stage, I swear I could see the molecules in his skin bouncing off of each other. He would pop up off the couch and dive for the stereo. "You have to hear this song," he'd say and throw on a record, or tape, or c.d. His eyes would close, a look of bliss transmitting itself across his face, I had no choice but to love the song too enraptured by his passion for it.
     Happy dad was my favorite person on the planet, my partner in crime, and fellow explorer. I couldn't help but leap into adventure with him. We'd hop on the first bus leaving the station, the destination didn't matter, only the journey. We'd find the fun wherever we landed because in his maniac phase, everything was fun and exciting, and the best museum, shop, castle, thing ever! We'd take staircases forbidden to tourists finding ourselves in a dark passage at Hampton Court Palace that I was sure was haunted by Anne Boleyn. Or we'd sneak into Dudley Zoo through the gift shop. I lived for those moments. A majority of my happiest memories are those I spent with happy dad dancing in front of a crowd of theatre-goers after seeing "Crazy for You" or singing songs from Evita in the narrow kitchen of my Irish friend, Denise, with dad egging everyone to sing something and showing such enthusiasm for our performances you'd have thought we were celebrities.
     But without warning happy dad would dissolve and disappear in a puff of toxic smoke leaving his evil twin - depressed dad also sometimes known as angry dad. Suddenly the bottom would fall out dropping me on my ass. I'd stare bewildered and dumbstruck as I scrambled to figure out what I'd done. Had I thrown the switch on his mood? Was it my fault? It felt like it.
     All of a sudden, even commonplace things like my cereal-eating habits now communicated hidden messages to his over-taxed brain. It was a conspiracy. I ate too slowly on purpose to avoid meeting his friends. My voice, the one he praised last night as being beautiful and just like Sarah Brightman's, now irritated him. He berated my natural voice, telling me I made it too high-pitched on purpose, I psychologically didn't want to grow up. Or he claimed I ganged up on him and embarrassed him in front of the same friends we just had the best evening with. If I liked the cider he bought me at the pub too much, I had a drinking problem. If I didn't drink, I was a prude. His mood soured with his waning energy. Everything wonderful and beautiful a minute ago suddenly grated on his nerves. I irritated him.
     As a young child, I cried and struggled to fix whatever I had done wrong. I internalized his bad moods as being my fault. I was too young to realize I had no control over the situation.
     But as I grew older, I learned to steal myself. I mentally prepared for the worse. Even in the midst of an adventure, I braced myself for the end and the pendulum swing to the other side. I hid from him on days he swung too far down into his own personal hell. I screened his calls, gauging his mood before I agreed to talk to him. I hated playing the game but could no longer weather the storm of his bad moods. I didn't know how to help him and just felt pulled under instead of useful.
     While he never said he was bi-polar, I knew something was off. But when I asked about taking meds he said he didn't want to alter his personality. Conflicted, I didn't want to lose the free-wheeling happy dad. But on the flip side, I could no longer deal with the lowest of the lows.
     I hated those moments when his energy waned and his neediness latched onto me like a toxic tar. He'd cling to me and berate me at the same time. He'd pick apart my faults in minute detail projecting his unhappiness and self-loathing on me. Worse still, I couldn't help him. I was powerless to do anything but watch us both go under.
     I loved my see-saw dad. I just wished for both our sakes he wasn't tormented with a mind strung between two poles. I just couldn't hang along with him crucified to his unhappiness.

Dear Super Target You Broke My Heart

Dear Super Target,

     It's been two months since we parted ways, and I can honestly say I am not over you yet. There is a hole in my closet and pantry with your name on it. In desperation, I have even resorted to looking to Walmart for comfort, but that's like dating a redneck with screaming kids and a drinking problem after being married to a guy with a steady job and a 401K.
     Now I know we had problems. You claim money troubles and a lack of interest in your welfare. But not from me. Never from me. I lavished attention and the household income on you. I devoted hours, spending quality time, just the two of us. I even ignored the kids just to spend time alone with you. We walked and talked together. You convinced me I needed new pillows and copper-tinted mugs for Moscow mules. Sometimes we met for coffee, sometimes a frozen pizza and fat-free organic milk. But I never took you for granted.
     So when you told me you were leaving, you broke my heart. I didn't even see it coming. Just one day, I was buying Christmas lights with a Cartwheel discount, then next you posted a note saying goodbye. Why? I know some girls were fickle and strayed to nearby Walmart or Winco. But I stayed loyal even when you stopped carrying my Newman's Asian sesame dressing or made me wait in long check out lines.
     You changed the way I looked at life. I mean literally, I used your optical department to buy new contacts. But it only served to help me watch you pack up and move away.
    Now two months later, you salt my wounds with the empty shell of what used to be. Could you at least have the common decency to sell the property so I can move on to another love, possibly Ikea. I hear they like long walks and Swedish meatballs. It just adds insult to injury to see your vacant building the stain of your bullet logo haunting me like a Target shaped hole carved out of my heart.
    And please, don't say I can come visit you at your old house. You live half-way across town. I will not risk half an hour in the car stuck behind cataract-afflicted snowbirds driving thirty in a fifty mile an hour zone just to see a smaller version of what once was.
     The kids miss you, the cat misses you. We had something special. Now you left me alone. I hope you find happiness and a better bottom line. I guess it's off to Walmart I go. At least, it's nearby and I can console myself with a sundae from McDonalds.

Sincerely,
A former Super Target customer

*I am mourning the loss of Indio Super Target on Jackson.