Splitting in Half and Coming Out Whole

Father’s Day

I expected it to be worse, honestly. But, generally speaking, what is Father’s Day to an adult? Especially when you live several hours away. You buy a present (maybe) and you make a phone call.

I’d probably be making that call right about now. Rowan passed out at 6 pm and Lorelei is learning history watching the The Who Was Show. So there is peace and quiet (I will probably pay for this later when Rowan wakes up at 4 am), and plenty of time to ring my father and wish him well.

He was an interesting man to talk to on the phone. As I’ve said before, neither of us are phone people. He had a flip phone and T9 texting. Once you got him on the phone, however, you could. not. get. him. to. shut. up.

He’d go on long rambling tangents about anything and everything.

History. Writing. How to thread a projector. Dick Vitale – sort of loveable or completely obnoxious? Obscure biblical characters he was going to incorporate into his next book. A ten-minute description of mowing the yard. Rarely politics, though. We knew better.

I’m not going to lie that sometimes I zoned out. Sometimes I made mouth motions with my hands. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda.

Still, this day hasn’t been that painful (though I could have done without the last week of emails from every store in existence suggesting gift ideas for my dad). What is one memory, in this sea of memories that crash over me with little warning? Like my dad, daring the waves to come get us. To carry us away.

A few minutes ago, I folded a fitted sheet easily and nicely, possibly for the first time ever. As I made the last fold, I thought of my dad. You see, he had this thing about fitted sheets. I’m really not kidding.

See? It’s not this arbitrary holiday that makes me miss my dad. It’s folding a fitted sheet. And more importantly, not being able to taunt him endlessly about my success.

I hear him a lot in this new house. Laughing at me for getting my car stuck in the mud. Giving me advice we both knew I would ignore. Problem solving. Telling me what certain plants are. He’d like this house, though. He would be optimistic about its flaws, and remind me that I’m not buying it. This is a way station between chapters and I might as well enjoy the time here.

Being on my own for the first time is not where I expected to find myself at age 37. I also didn’t expect my dad’s voice to be nothing more than the ghost of memory.

But I live here and I am home now.

I really love this house. It’s starting to feel less like a large hotel room that happens to have all of my stuff, and more like home.

After taking the kids swimming, I spent most of the day hanging twinkle lights and rearranging furniture. On Friday, a truckload of stuff from my parents’ house will arrive. There will be pieces of my dad mixed in via his sometimes random decorating style.

As I sit in my awesome garden tub and look around, I realize this house is pieces of so many. I can see my bed, which my friends lovingly assembled while I was still supervising the uhaul loading at the old house.

They built the kids’ new beds. Moved furniture. Unpacked boxes without offense at me rearranging things immediately. They ordered pizza and talked and showed up. When I read that story that has been going around recently – the one about the woman who was depressed when her dad died and she had just moved and her friends showed up and took care of everything – I just nodded with understanding. I’m never sure I deserve them, but they keep showing up anyhow.

So even though I have only lived in this house for two weeks, it is already full of memories.

It’s not all awesome. I’ve never mowed a yard before. I avoid vacuuming like the plague. Certain bugs terrify me, and here I am, the solo bug killer and remover. I’m still not sure how I will get a trash can and two recycling bins to the top of this long, uphill, gravel driveway.

But… I have two recycling bins! If that isn’t the American fucking dream, I don’t know what is.

This new house is surrounded on three sides by a bamboo forest. And my kitchen has a bay-ish window where my papason chair fits nicely. There are two things I’ve wanted my entire life: a window seat, and a secret passage. I’ve got some approximation of the window seat, maybe the hidden tunnel will be in my next house.

It’s been a wild ride of self-care. I’m learning that sometimes self-care is buying a new pair of pajamas, and sometimes it is throwing your entire life into chaos. I have a feeling there are a lot of lessons ready for me to learn in the coming weeks and months. For the time being, my life will be a mix of stupidity and strength I didn’t know I had. And when that strength fails me, I’ll be reminded yet again, to rely on the kindness of my friends to pull me out of the muck.