I got to have lunch with my Dad Saturday afternoon. We ordered some kabobs and just chilled at a cafe table on the sidewalk, people watching, talking and laughing for hours. I’m very lucky to have my Dad; I joke a lot about being a mental case but with less capable parents I could have easily ended up as full-blown nut-job. Not like a cute, oh-isn’t-he-zany-let’s-invite-him-to-parties-so-we-can-watch-him-dance nut job, more like an I-can’t-believe-anyone-would-show-up-at-a-movie-theater-wearing-only-a-poncho nut job. Sometimes I think about all the guidance and advice he’s given me over the years, how much of it has come in handy, can tell I’m gonna have to have kids at some point just so I can pay it forward and get karma off my ass.
One of the things I admire most about my Dad is his honesty; it’s ruthless and brutal like an African dictator. Cuts deep and hot like a lightsaber fight in a coat closet, once you’re in there, you know nobody’s getting away unscathed. Good or bad he’s going to tell you the truth and let you deal with it however you want. I usually respond myself with a lot of half-started, frustrated-sounding sentence fragments, intermittent staring contests with the ground, and a pair of alarmingly moist armpits.
There are friends and family members who understandably make a conscious effort to avoid my father at all costs because they know given a few minutes he’s bound to make it hot for them. It’s never hateful or mean-spirited; he’s genuinely trying to help. I think that’s what makes stuff really sting sometimes; knowing that the person upsetting you is not only right, but that he or she is only speaking out of genuine empathetic concern. To make things worse, he regularly calls himself on his own B.S., so it’s not like you can even hope to one day find the footing to usurp the moral high ground. Takes away your right to be legitimately angry on your own terms, leaving irrational resentment as the only satisfactory recourse.
“Yeah, well you may be right hot shot, but you’re not getting an invitation to my party next month, so how bout THEM apples? …Oh I’ll invite you, but it’ll be a phone call like twenty minutes before the party starts… then we’ll really see whose to blame for my breakup, won’t we?”
He’ll tell you the truth, knowing it may well cost him his friendship with you. As an adult, those are the kind of people who have turned out to my most valued friends, people who will be honest with you about who they are, who don’t care about seeming perfect or poised and who can tell you when they disagree or think you’re full of sh*t (more often than I’d like to admit) without judging you and trust you to do the same for them. That all stems from my Dad and it’s cool to have had that influence. Think it’s important to take note of stuff like that while everybody’s in good health; he is the first and last role model for the kind of man I strive to be. Still got a long looong way to go yet, all we can do is keep moving. Speaking of moving, it’s time I wrapped up this Hallmark Channel tribute and got back to the point of this entry…
Chilling with my Pop had me reminiscing about growing up as I walked to work this morning. Was listening to Kanye West at the same time, remembered how I used to wet the bed as a kid. Me and the ole bladder put in some serious work between the ages of 2 and 5; like Eminem and Dr. Dre or the Funk Brothers, we was CRANKING. That poor mattress spent more time getting disinfected and drying out on the back porch than it did on my bed frame. You would’ve almost thought I was doing it just to be funny, taking pride in my output. Could imagine myself drinking coffee and cranberry juice before going to bed, taunting my folks as I marched upstairs, sounding like a cocky rapper about to hit the studio.
“I think I feel another hit coming on guys, no one can contain these flows baby… when I spray it’s GOLD!”
Gosh, those years sucked, waking up soaked and smelling like your diaper needs to be changed. That foolishness ain’t cute when you’re old enough to be taught manners. I’m not sure if I knew what dignity was at that age, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any on those nights. That’s probably why I didn’t go to prom; I didn’t believe in myself. I should’ve joined a boys and girls club, had Denzel Washington make a surprise visit, show me how to play badminton. That wouldn’t have made me believe in myself any more, but at least I could’ve told girls I’ve met Denzel Washington. If you can’t get your nerve up with an icebreaker like that, you don’t deserve to have tux and corsage money spent on you.
At any rate, I don’t think waking up soaked and stinking like a third world outhouse was the worst part of wetting the bed. It was two seconds later when you realized you’d have to wake your folks up so the post-Katrina clean up could commence. As a remembered, I never felt comfortable just walking in their bedroom, waking them up with a straight face and calm voice
“Hey there. I uh, (sniff) hate to be a pain, but I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of an accident, was wondering if I could trouble someone to be a dear and refresh my linens. So sorry about this… you know it sounded like you two were awake (sniff)… but apparently you were sleeping you were sleeping quite soundly, I don’t know how you two can sleep with it being so (sniff) musty in here, can’t quite place that scent… hey, were you guys having a party? Then why are these empty balloons everywhere?”
You can’t walk in there calm and proper like that, trying to have a damn discussion. You got to go in there hysterical, like a ghetto mama who’s 28 year-old “baby” just got smoked and refuses to accept that no one would “plant” 35lbs of cocaine in her son’s backpack just to make him look bad. When it’s time to report a bedwetting, you go all out. If you didn’t have that little snot moustache going and the ultra-contorted post-breakup-about-to-breakdown-any-minute face… well let’s just say you weren’t really committed to the role and it’s going to reflect in ticket sales.
Frustrating thing for me was that no matter how committed I was to the role, my folks always saw through my performances, used to make me mad.
“Well, you could at least let me know you weren’t gonna buy it, saved me the trouble of getting all worked up… with all due respect, I mean damn!”
This is where my Dad’s honesty would come into play. He’d call me on it and start doing a comedy set on how bad an actor I was while cleaning the mattress.
“Might as well stop with all the jive tears, you know you ain’t really cryin’ right? What do you have to cry about anyway? You think you’re the first person to wet a bed? You think you’ll be the last? I should be sad… I mean “I” was in the middle of something… boy, if you only knew… there should be tears in MY damn eyes… that’s ok, one day you’ll understand, when you’re older… we’ll sit down and we’ll have kabobs, I’ll tell you all about it…THEN you can cry. We’ll BOTH cry…”
That’s what it means to me to be a parent; being willing to clean a mattress in the middle of the night, night after night, as long as it takes, and being able to do it without giving your kid any more of complex than he or she is already destined to have. My name is Mike and I’d better not turn out to be a deadbeat.
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