He did it again.
It seemed like the middle of the night when I thought I heard a knock at the door. I wanted to ignore it, but my son was sleeping on the sofa bed and I went to check it out.
There he was – my son – receiving instructions in low tones from my father, who had decided to take him fishing. My dad then turned to me and started babbling about my youngest sister closing on a house this week. I glared at him and reminded him I was still half asleep and that this might be the only day in my 18-week training schedule when I didn’t have to get up early to run or go to work. So much for sleeping in.
And I hated him all morning for that.
I started thinking about all of the stupid-ass things he did to me when I was young – waking me up by pouring water in my face or tickling me with my feather pen until I was annoyed into opening my eyes, leading me to believe Santa left me that bundle of switches outside my bedroom door because I was such a bad kid. It dawned on me that if he were born today, he might be diagnosed with some sort of social disorder like Aspbergers, because he really doesn’t know how to deal with people sometimes. Maybe he does have some issues. I just always thought he was an asshole.
So the boys went fishing and the girls hung back and hot-tubbed, read, and watched the rain roll in. Damn it.
The fishermen arrived around lunchtime with photographic evidence of their day’s efforts. My son looked happy and seems to tolerate my father in a way that I cannot. Or maybe I used to, once upon a time.
He left to clean up, then returned to take us all to dinner. He rattled on about this and that, not listening to a goddamn thing anyone else said. I started to tell him about my job, but he just doesn’t hear me. He interrupts to tell me about my cousin’s husband who finally got his citizenship and now has access to some classified something or other. Seriously, I can’t have a fucking conversation with this man.
I understand now why I never felt loved. I understand why I hated him. I understand why I felt like nothing I ever did impressed him or was good enough. Because he never acted like he heard me. Ever. Still doesn’t. I think it’s just the way he is. He has his own agenda. He doesn’t give a shit about yours.
And all the while, I’m wondering if my kids will hate visiting me one day as much as I hate visiting my family.
I finished out the day with another round in the hot tub and a glass of cheap Chardonnay from the Tiki Hut convenience store up the road. My head hurts from too much sugar and fat, and while I hope we get to boat again tomorrow, I’m really ready for my own bed and my regular routine. There are many things I miss this week, not the least of which is my gym time.
Friday will be a colorful (I’m certain) visit with my great Uncle Dick, and an uncomfortable (I’m even more certain) evening with my sister and her family at my mother’s before we
escape head home on Saturday.
And that will be the end of this year’s family torture. I’m going to put a note on my calendar to remind me to read these posts if I am stupid enough to consider it again next summer.