Dad. A more balanced thing. Much easier on me on all levels.
With the new house, changes to the schedule, and my focus on Dad, I worried a bit the kids would feel left out. Turned out to be just the opposite. They saw more of me and me of them. Win-win…although they might disagree with that at times.
From my point of view, it was nice being June Cleaver for a while. I was there to greet Tommy and Michelle when they came home for school. They updated me on their day and seemed genuinely happy to see me.
As our new routine became more, well, routine, other family members included Dad as part of their everyday life. At first, it just happened. Along the way, it became important. Important memories. Important insights. Important time.
If Dad was not with me when they came in from school, the kids went back to say hi to him. They asked him about his day and he asked them about theirs. Most days, Michelle stayed with him until dinner. It became quite common for her to do her homework on the floor while Dad watched TV and/or talked to her.
Tommy’s time with Dad came about later. In a different way. All on its own. Tommy did his homework in his room. That was his way. He talked with Dad every day but spent very little time with him. He was more of a private kid. Video games were his thing. He loved his Granddad. The two of them just did not have much in common.
That is, until, Tommy showed Dad his Gundam models. Dad had never heard of Gundam. Truth be told, nor had I. Tommy discovered the series all on his own. Soon, his wish list for Christmas, birthday, or any day included something Gundam. Gundam Wing. Gundam X, Gundam Y, and Gundam Z. Gundam went from “what the heck is Gundam?” to” how many Gundams can there possible be?” real quick. Tommy loved building these intricate models of futuristic whatever the heck they were.
Tommy’s interest began simple. He asked for a Gundam, explained to us, as if we were brain dead for not knowing, and we got him one. That was sometime in a long distant past. Now, we just accepted there would be a new Gundam and Tommy would hope to get it.
At dinner one night, Tommy finished and said he was going upstairs to work on his model. Dad perked up like a kid that heard the magic word. “Model? What model, Tommy?’
Until that night, I did not know my Dad build models as a kid. Actually, I guess I did. I just did not know he really loved building models as a kid. That night, Tommy uncovered a passion my father and he shared. Models. Dad was about to learn what a Gundam was. Tommy was about to have a new friend. They left the table together and went to Tommy’s room.
Two hours later, I checked on them. I found two boys. Working on a model. Together. Dad did not know what a Gundam models were before dinner. Two hours later, he loved them.
Tommy found out about Corsairs, Spitfires, Bombers, and a 1935 Deusenberg Model J, with a Rumble Seat. Dad had his own version of Gundams when he was a kid.
Pretty soon, Dad and Tommy spent an evening or two a week together. There were even several Saturdays where the two of them worked on models as a team. Dad learned about Gundam. Tommy learned about classic autos. Both learned about each other.
My son and my father became friends. Friends that hung out together. Friends that got excited when they started a new model, passionate when building the model, and proud of the final product. Tommy loved my father. He also liked him. The models brought two ten year olds together….one just happened to be in his seventies at the time.
As Fuggeddaboudit claimed more of Dad, the models became a place where his age was less important. He regressed and the passion of his youth was already there. We headed Alzheimer’s off at the pass. It was more than therapy. It was a victory. I got to see the boy my father was and he hung out with my son while I watched. Take that, Fuggeddaboudit! Up yours!
Homework
With models and movies and walks to the beach, Dad had quite the busy schedule. He also had quiet time. Rarely alone time though. His days of being alone were less and less. That was more my choice than his. It just did not feel right, or safe for that matter, to leave him alone too long. Luckily, the kids helped out.
Michelle’s homework time became her time with Dad and my chance to cook dinner without him in the way. Just a reality. Michelle helped. She babysat her Granddad and did her homework while she did. Multi-tasking at its best.
As a freshman in High School, Michelle had a fair amount of homework. She came home from school, grabbed a snack, she was a big fruit eater, and then headed to Dad’s living room with her back pack in tow. She sprawled out on the floor, scattered her books hither and yon, and chatted away with Dad while she worked.
Whenever I peeked in on them, which was several times each day, Dad was watching her. She could be talking, reading, thinking, daydreaming, and noodling…and Dad just watched. The look on his face was familiar. Familiar like one of those things you remember but can’t quite put your finger on. It stuck with me. There was something about that look I knew.
One day, I heard Michelle reading aloud to Dad. It was from a hard cover book. Turned out to be “Atlas Shrugged”. That epic by Ayn Rand was Dad’s all-time favorite book. There was my daughter reading my father the book he called the best book ever written. I leaned against the door jam and enjoyed. Enjoyed the sound of her voice and beautiful enunciation. Enjoyed how she said Dagny. Enjoyed the mesmerized look on Dad’s face. Enjoyed that his all-time best book just got a bit better since his granddaughter read it to him. Enjoyed the moment.
Then I went up to my bedroom and cried.
The tears built slowly, emerged as sobs by the staircase, oozed from my eyes as the bedroom door closed, and burst forth in raking agony as I threw myself on the bed. Cried long and hard. Went deep inside the tears and came out the other side. Came out with answers. Came out cleaner and clearer and stronger. Just the way Dad taught me.
“Tears mean you care, Mally Pally. Just make sure you care about the right things. Then cry your eyes out.”
Dad was a man that understood tears. He was brave enough to cry, man enough to admit it, and father enough to teach me. I learned another key to really good cries all by myself. The Five Whys.
Learned the Five Whys in a management class or seminar or something. Take any problem, ask five Whys about it, and you have the real issue that needs to be addressed. Tried it, it worked, so I kept on using it. Used it one day after a really good cry and took my tears to a whole new level. I used them. Learned from them. Welcomed them.
Cried my eyes out that day. Punched the pillow. Kicked my feet. Screamed into the blankets. Cursed like a truck driver with a stubbed toe, impacted molar, and two flat tires. The works. A world class, rib aching, tear duct emptying, cry your soul out through your nostrils festival of emotion. Then I paced the room and peeled it back. Owned it.
Homework. It was homework for crying out loud. Homework. She read to him. He liked it. Big deal. Why the tears? Cause he’s gonna die? Well, Duh. Why? Why the tears? Homework? Memories? Memories of homework? Yes. Good memories? Why? Cause Dad and Mom made you do homework? Cause Mom is gone and Dad is about to be gone? Yes. Why? Cause they taught you and you taught Michelle and she reads to him? Yes. Because it is homework? Maybe.
Homework. It is just homework. An obligation for crying out loud. An obligation. Something you had to do. They made you. Teachers made you. An obligation. Yet, you learned to like it. Michelle learned to like it. Tommy learned to like it. It was an obligation and you learned to like it. Why?
Belief. You believed in Mom and Dad. You believed they loved you and knew what was good for you and all of that. You believed in them. Obligation plus belief became responsibility. Homework became responsibility. Homework became something you believed it. You trusted it was a good thing. A wise investment of your time. In yourself. It would pay off later. When you learned whatever it was you were supposed to learn.
Homework. Mom
and Dad made you do and it became something you believed was the right thing. You taught Michelle and Tommy that same lesson. Now Michelle is doing her homework with her dying grandfather and reading his favorite book to him while you cry your eyes out. Cry your eyes out because the circle closes. He taught you, you taught her, and she spends time with him. An obligation that she accepts and trust is right.
Homework. I laughed aloud. Homework indeed. Michelle read to Dad because it was the right thing to do. She learned that from me. I learned that from him. That is how home works. With that I laughed and realized the tears were tears of thanks. Things were right with the world. These moments were exactly right. Lessons learned and lived and shared. Home really does work. Home sweet home.
We went out for dinner that night. It was not in the budget but I couldn’t afford not to. Sometimes you just have to celebrate the moment. The moment before the world stops just like you know it will. Sometimes you just have to celebrate the now. Of course, I ensured the kids had their homework done before we left.
Breakfast of Champions
Things settled in on the home front. The daily routine was more than just comforting. It became important to me and to Dad. For Dad, it was safer. Easier. He got up in the morning and knew the
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