I had to make a particularly uncomfortable call the other day.
It started with an excited kid named Sarah bringing home an invitation in her green folder, the folder that I am instructed by Ms. Pender to open and look through on a daily basis, sign a sheet of paper saying I had reviewed it's contents, and then return to Sarah's book bag to go back to the teachers the next day of school, the same folder that I often forget to open until the car ride to school, the folder that has ended up crinkled in all the wrong places, that has been left numerous times at friends' houses. Why are children asked to keep up with important things? My guess is so that when they becomes adults they know how to do it.
The invitation is nothing fancy, as most invitations that come from a public school would not be. The paper is a little thicker than usual however, and has a pretty red font- apropo for it's date to take place of February 9. At the very top of the page it's written in swirly font, much like Sarah's favorite way to write her letters these days when she is being "fancy." Her bff, Riley has made the font popular also. Apparently, little girls like to copy each other.
The Third Annual Daddy-Daughter Dance at Elizabeth Traditional is what it reads in its cutesy swirly font in red and black. When Sarah got it out of her book bag and showed it to me, I immediately was trying to think of ways to explain that her daddy would not be going to the third annual dance with her (or probably fourth or fifth or sixth for that matter). Her father has not called her since her last birthday- May 30, 2012, when he told her he would take her shopping and buy her that DS that she's been asking for since she was tucked nicely in my womb. I was infuriated, and with right. I had been correct. He never called back, and we haven't heard from him since. To go into what a piece of shit he is would take too long, so I'll let you dig into that one on your own. It's pretty cut and dry. I'm sure you are already forming your judgement. Don't let me stop you.
"Can we call daddy and ask him to come with me," she yelled with excitement from the backseat of my Buick Park Ave adorned with stickers on the window where she sits, and complete with green stars she drew on the back of my seat, "to make it pretty." That was an ugly moment in time we won't dive into. You can only imagine the verbiage that was strangled in my throat when I opened the door to see that sight. Eyes bulging, teeth gritting. It was not pretty for Sarah Fairley that afternoon. I don't use a belt if that's what you were thinking. In fact, I don't think I even spanked her, even at my mother's seemingly constant urging. I think spanking is not effective on girls, but what do I know? I have stars drawn all over the backseat, (door and ceiling- I was being modest) of my car.
"No. Your father probably won't be able to go, honey. I'm sorry. I don't know how to get in touch with him," I reluctantly say with a huge lump in my throat. "Why not? You don't know his number?"
"No. I'm sorry. He didn't give it to me." I deflect, making sure she knows that it is not MY fault that he is not in touch with her. She has before told me that she thought it was my fault that he didn't stop by anymore. Truth be told, it was. I told him he wasn't welcome to drop by whenever the spirit moved him, or when the guilt became unbearable. I think he took that as NEVER call her anymore. Or at least, I know that he's using that as his excuse. I know that turd. That's his lie to himself to try to make himself feel better. He knows the truth deep inside, but it hurts sometimes, doesn't it? We all have occasionally sick and disturbing ways of coping with our inequities, but for some reason, many men, not all men, but many, seem to be able to blame women for theirs, and have this amazingly intense detachment gene that I for one, will never understand.
She put the invitation back in her green folder and we rode down Independence Blvd. at 6:03 in the dark, both silent, both almost hypnotized by the blaring Christian music I had turned up a few decimals to ease the pain, and erase my evil thoughts of murder and tying balls as tight as possible in a sling and letting go, catapulting 1000 feet in the air. I like Christian music stations. Some songs are cheesy, but some of the songs are really good. I never liked that type of music growing up. Songs of sex, drugs, and things that got you in trouble were way cooler. I was never exposed to that type of music by my parents, at least in the car. Thinking now, I wish I had been. I hope to God that Sarah doesn't turn out rotten like I was. It's obvious that she doesn't have all the things that I did, but it's good because I was a little bitch to my Mom. Regrettably so.
Sarah never seems to be bothered long after we have those conversations about her missing father. I'm hoping that her feelings aren't going inward, only to manifest in the teenage years. I don't think that's happening. In fact, I think Sarah is very normal considering. (Her mom is a weirdo, and her father is absent.)
I'm joking about being weird. I prefer the word eccentric. But honestly, I like to think my positive outlook rubs off on her. Things don't bother me, and they rarely bother her. I don't stew, get bitter, get revenge. She forgives quickly. I try to let things roll off- most of the time. When it comes to Sarah though, it's different.
You DO NOT fuck with my child. And what he does to her, is the epitome of fucking with her. It bothers me to no end when I think about it, so I try not to. So when we have these two minute conversations about dillweed (what I call him), I am usually torn up for days afterward, whereas she just lets it roll off. It's like we trade places. She becomes the mom, the insightful one- unlike me, and I become the child who doesn't understand. Only, the truth is, and this is sort of scary- the truth is- she gets it.
She knows not to expect anything from him, which is the most sad for me somehow. The roles are reversed, and she knows that he won't come through, probably because she has rarely seen it happen. He's been fly by night her whole life. She doesn't set the expectation high like I do. She hasn't seen anything else, and has nothing to compare it to. Grinchlike, the thought shrinks my heart three times when I think of her situation- of her father's pathetic demise, but in reality, it's smart of her. She won't have to expect anything from him, and she won't in turn be let down when he doesn't come through.
A few weeks passed. All the while, I was banking on Uncle Brad to come through like he always does. He's the good brother- the dillweed's brother, who incidentally dislikes the dillweed as much as I do, probably more in fact. He grew up with him for 16 years. I only had 3 years for him to turn me away. Brad is the good father to his kids who are 1, 6, and 9. He's happily married, and a good role model even though he does like the Cubs. I don't hold that against him. After all, I still have a Cubs sticker on my car that dillweed stuck on the back window without my knowledge thinking he was being funny. For some reason I haven't taken it off. Guess it somehow ties me to his family, which I have adopted as my own. When we split, instead of taking the bedroom suite, I took the family. Everything was mine to begin with- the house, the cars, the debt. I just lost every shred of dignity I had somehow mustered up through the years, and that has been a slow, but steady recovery.
In a text I ask abruptly, "Brad, will you take Sarah to the Daddy Daughter dance at her school next weekend? Pretty please?" Normally, I would have had Sarah call him and ask him, but he called me out on it recently, calling my method, "being slick." I believe his exact words included "everyone is manipulative when they know they can be." I stopped dead in my tracks, although at the time I was snuggling under the blanket at their house on the new leather Laz-z-boy that Carole bought in a fit of weakness, and rarely snuggles up in herself. I was busted. I knew it was sneaky to have Sarah call. All parents know that trick, and if you don't use it, then you are a fool. There are times when you need to utilize the tools you have no matter how rusty they might be. That just happens to be mine on a Friday night and I was last minutely asked to a girls' night out on the town. I know what I'm doing, and Brad knows my sorcery, but I still do it sometimes. For this occasion, I figured I better not risk the immediate "NO!" which I rarely hear.
Last weekend Brad said he would be happy to take her, and when he did, he did something that was reminiscent of a leprechaun dance. I'm still not sure what that was. I had to ask what he was doing. He laughed. Sarah informed me previously that she did not want to go with Uncle Brad unless MacKenzie, her cousin, went along too. In my mind, the thought of MacKenzie and Brad and Sarah at the dance was kinda shrinking of the idea of spending quality time with her uncle one on one, but as I think about it now, it seems kind of silly- especially after the call I had with Ms. Nelson today. No, she wasn't Ms. Nelson, from the famous childhood book, Ms. Nelson is Missing, which scared the heck out of me as a child. Like all other children who read it, I did not like that mean, ugly substitute teacher either. When in reality we all know that most substitute teachers are most likely 69 years old and stand about 4'11 in stature- just about as scary as your great grandmother. Well, now that I think about it, maybe that's not a good comparison. Great grandma Howell was pretty scary as I recall, always sitting in that same room in that little house that smelled like dust and with tons of machines making all kinds of weird noises around her and tubes coming from every direction like octopus legs sneaking up on an unassuming plankton.
I called Elizabeth and asked for whomever was in charge of the Daddy Daughter Dance. The answer was not what I was looking for, but it was the answer I got. I guess secretly I was looking for Mr.Slattery, the school assistant principal., who I feel I have a connection with somehow. Maybe it's because I sat in his office, maybe it's because he knows my little girl. Maybe it's because he's just a nice guy, and probably around my age. Either way, I was transferred to Miss Nelson. I was fine with that. She was a teacher, not an assistant, which for some reason made me happy, I guess it was knowing that she had more pull than an assistant. Although, I like Sarah's teacher assistant more than her lead teacher. She told me she prays for me "more than you know". We share a tear most occasions we come into contact, which is probably monthly. I feel like I've known her for years, and she always leaves me feeling warmth in my heart after I see her and we get the chance to say a few words. That's all it take sometimes.
Miss Nelson, who sounded young, I'm guessing in her twenties, was receptive in answering my call. "Hi, this is Miss Nelson." It takes some getting used to for me, calling adults by their last name. At first, I wanted to know everyone's first name. I like being on a first name basis with people. It just makes sense to me as an adult, but not in elementary school and not in college. I'm vaguely remembering now. It's a sign of respect. It doesn't mean that you aren't going to have a good relationship. It just shows that you will respect that person that you are calling Miss so-n-so or Mr. so-n-so. Still. I volunteer at Myers Park, and I still don't want the girls calling me by my last name. It just feels weird, and it'll make me feel old, which is probably true, and I like running from the truth sometimes damn it.
"Hi Miss Nelson. This is Brooke Fairley. How are you?" Typical introduction if you are a Fairley. I explained that Sarah, my youngen (love that word), was in Kindergarten, and that she had expressed that she wanted to go to the DDD (Daddy Daughter Dance), but she was missing the first of the trifecta. I think my words were, "her father is nowhere to be found." Never been accused of being subtle. It's definitely not my strong suite, and I'm fine with it for now.
I can joke about it now, but in that moment that I was sitting on Mom's couch sounding out those words the moment was less jovial, and more uncomfortable. There was a lump, and it turned itself into a series of high pitched sentences that barely squeezed out of my throat. I was embarrassed, but more than that, I was sad. It was actually hitting me- that I needed to explain to some foreign person that Sarah did not have a father, and moreover it was not easy for me to say, nor to admit. And the combo of recognizing and admitting it aloud was too much for the both of us. She was probably thinking to herself, "Omg, what do I say to this mom?" And I was thinking to myself, "Omg, how do I say this without crying?" No matter what came out of both of our mouths, we both knew what the story was. She had heard it before, seen it before. I had told it before, and live it everyday. My question to her, was this, "Can Sarah's cousin come with her? She wants her to go." I probably could have spinned it better, but at the time being, that's the best I could do with what I had.
Miss Nelson explained very nicely to me that almost of the girls that attend Elizabeth go to the DDD, grand totaling close to 300 little princesses, and that there is simply not enough room to allow non-students to come. That it's great fun, that there's cake involved and pictures, and group dancing- mostly girls. She said the "daddies" mostly hover around the edges of the room, looking useless, probably sending text messages, checking the scores on their Iphones, and probably drinking from a flask. That's my rendition of it anyway.
I think she misunderstood my request. I wasn't telling her that Sarah was shy, that she didn't want to go to the dance unless she had her cousin. No, that couldn't be further from the truth. She would walk into packed courtroom as the star witness, not bat an eye, waltz right past the juror box and wink at the judge. She was born with no fear, no worry. My daughter could give a class on class, and I should probably sign up for it. But the point is, she didn't want Mackenzie to go because she felt worried that she wouldn't fit in, that she wouldn't know anyone. I think she wanted her cousin there to ease the stark reality- that Uncle Brad was not her beloved daddy. She might be young, but we're never too young to be wise.
It could be that she just loves her cousin. Maybe I'm reading too deeply into it, when really there is no hidden meaning, no intrinsic story, just a kid who wants to be with her cousin. Either way, it was not an easy call to make, and if I'm correct in my assumption, there will be many more calls like that in my future, many more explanations to Sarah of why her daddy doesn't call or come for Christmas or bring her gifts on her birthday. There will be many more heartbreaks for me. She will probably not feel the pangs as hard as I will, because she doesn't know what it's like to have a daddy who does the right thing, who supports her, who loves her. She might one day, but until that happens, I will be happy to be both superstar mom and makeshift dad. If I ever have a doubt about what my gifts are, taking care of her will never be one them. It's a privilege.
It started with an excited kid named Sarah bringing home an invitation in her green folder, the folder that I am instructed by Ms. Pender to open and look through on a daily basis, sign a sheet of paper saying I had reviewed it's contents, and then return to Sarah's book bag to go back to the teachers the next day of school, the same folder that I often forget to open until the car ride to school, the folder that has ended up crinkled in all the wrong places, that has been left numerous times at friends' houses. Why are children asked to keep up with important things? My guess is so that when they becomes adults they know how to do it.
The invitation is nothing fancy, as most invitations that come from a public school would not be. The paper is a little thicker than usual however, and has a pretty red font- apropo for it's date to take place of February 9. At the very top of the page it's written in swirly font, much like Sarah's favorite way to write her letters these days when she is being "fancy." Her bff, Riley has made the font popular also. Apparently, little girls like to copy each other.
The Third Annual Daddy-Daughter Dance at Elizabeth Traditional is what it reads in its cutesy swirly font in red and black. When Sarah got it out of her book bag and showed it to me, I immediately was trying to think of ways to explain that her daddy would not be going to the third annual dance with her (or probably fourth or fifth or sixth for that matter). Her father has not called her since her last birthday- May 30, 2012, when he told her he would take her shopping and buy her that DS that she's been asking for since she was tucked nicely in my womb. I was infuriated, and with right. I had been correct. He never called back, and we haven't heard from him since. To go into what a piece of shit he is would take too long, so I'll let you dig into that one on your own. It's pretty cut and dry. I'm sure you are already forming your judgement. Don't let me stop you.
"Can we call daddy and ask him to come with me," she yelled with excitement from the backseat of my Buick Park Ave adorned with stickers on the window where she sits, and complete with green stars she drew on the back of my seat, "to make it pretty." That was an ugly moment in time we won't dive into. You can only imagine the verbiage that was strangled in my throat when I opened the door to see that sight. Eyes bulging, teeth gritting. It was not pretty for Sarah Fairley that afternoon. I don't use a belt if that's what you were thinking. In fact, I don't think I even spanked her, even at my mother's seemingly constant urging. I think spanking is not effective on girls, but what do I know? I have stars drawn all over the backseat, (door and ceiling- I was being modest) of my car.
"No. Your father probably won't be able to go, honey. I'm sorry. I don't know how to get in touch with him," I reluctantly say with a huge lump in my throat. "Why not? You don't know his number?"
"No. I'm sorry. He didn't give it to me." I deflect, making sure she knows that it is not MY fault that he is not in touch with her. She has before told me that she thought it was my fault that he didn't stop by anymore. Truth be told, it was. I told him he wasn't welcome to drop by whenever the spirit moved him, or when the guilt became unbearable. I think he took that as NEVER call her anymore. Or at least, I know that he's using that as his excuse. I know that turd. That's his lie to himself to try to make himself feel better. He knows the truth deep inside, but it hurts sometimes, doesn't it? We all have occasionally sick and disturbing ways of coping with our inequities, but for some reason, many men, not all men, but many, seem to be able to blame women for theirs, and have this amazingly intense detachment gene that I for one, will never understand.
She put the invitation back in her green folder and we rode down Independence Blvd. at 6:03 in the dark, both silent, both almost hypnotized by the blaring Christian music I had turned up a few decimals to ease the pain, and erase my evil thoughts of murder and tying balls as tight as possible in a sling and letting go, catapulting 1000 feet in the air. I like Christian music stations. Some songs are cheesy, but some of the songs are really good. I never liked that type of music growing up. Songs of sex, drugs, and things that got you in trouble were way cooler. I was never exposed to that type of music by my parents, at least in the car. Thinking now, I wish I had been. I hope to God that Sarah doesn't turn out rotten like I was. It's obvious that she doesn't have all the things that I did, but it's good because I was a little bitch to my Mom. Regrettably so.
Sarah never seems to be bothered long after we have those conversations about her missing father. I'm hoping that her feelings aren't going inward, only to manifest in the teenage years. I don't think that's happening. In fact, I think Sarah is very normal considering. (Her mom is a weirdo, and her father is absent.)
I'm joking about being weird. I prefer the word eccentric. But honestly, I like to think my positive outlook rubs off on her. Things don't bother me, and they rarely bother her. I don't stew, get bitter, get revenge. She forgives quickly. I try to let things roll off- most of the time. When it comes to Sarah though, it's different.
You DO NOT fuck with my child. And what he does to her, is the epitome of fucking with her. It bothers me to no end when I think about it, so I try not to. So when we have these two minute conversations about dillweed (what I call him), I am usually torn up for days afterward, whereas she just lets it roll off. It's like we trade places. She becomes the mom, the insightful one- unlike me, and I become the child who doesn't understand. Only, the truth is, and this is sort of scary- the truth is- she gets it.
She knows not to expect anything from him, which is the most sad for me somehow. The roles are reversed, and she knows that he won't come through, probably because she has rarely seen it happen. He's been fly by night her whole life. She doesn't set the expectation high like I do. She hasn't seen anything else, and has nothing to compare it to. Grinchlike, the thought shrinks my heart three times when I think of her situation- of her father's pathetic demise, but in reality, it's smart of her. She won't have to expect anything from him, and she won't in turn be let down when he doesn't come through.
A few weeks passed. All the while, I was banking on Uncle Brad to come through like he always does. He's the good brother- the dillweed's brother, who incidentally dislikes the dillweed as much as I do, probably more in fact. He grew up with him for 16 years. I only had 3 years for him to turn me away. Brad is the good father to his kids who are 1, 6, and 9. He's happily married, and a good role model even though he does like the Cubs. I don't hold that against him. After all, I still have a Cubs sticker on my car that dillweed stuck on the back window without my knowledge thinking he was being funny. For some reason I haven't taken it off. Guess it somehow ties me to his family, which I have adopted as my own. When we split, instead of taking the bedroom suite, I took the family. Everything was mine to begin with- the house, the cars, the debt. I just lost every shred of dignity I had somehow mustered up through the years, and that has been a slow, but steady recovery.
In a text I ask abruptly, "Brad, will you take Sarah to the Daddy Daughter dance at her school next weekend? Pretty please?" Normally, I would have had Sarah call him and ask him, but he called me out on it recently, calling my method, "being slick." I believe his exact words included "everyone is manipulative when they know they can be." I stopped dead in my tracks, although at the time I was snuggling under the blanket at their house on the new leather Laz-z-boy that Carole bought in a fit of weakness, and rarely snuggles up in herself. I was busted. I knew it was sneaky to have Sarah call. All parents know that trick, and if you don't use it, then you are a fool. There are times when you need to utilize the tools you have no matter how rusty they might be. That just happens to be mine on a Friday night and I was last minutely asked to a girls' night out on the town. I know what I'm doing, and Brad knows my sorcery, but I still do it sometimes. For this occasion, I figured I better not risk the immediate "NO!" which I rarely hear.
Last weekend Brad said he would be happy to take her, and when he did, he did something that was reminiscent of a leprechaun dance. I'm still not sure what that was. I had to ask what he was doing. He laughed. Sarah informed me previously that she did not want to go with Uncle Brad unless MacKenzie, her cousin, went along too. In my mind, the thought of MacKenzie and Brad and Sarah at the dance was kinda shrinking of the idea of spending quality time with her uncle one on one, but as I think about it now, it seems kind of silly- especially after the call I had with Ms. Nelson today. No, she wasn't Ms. Nelson, from the famous childhood book, Ms. Nelson is Missing, which scared the heck out of me as a child. Like all other children who read it, I did not like that mean, ugly substitute teacher either. When in reality we all know that most substitute teachers are most likely 69 years old and stand about 4'11 in stature- just about as scary as your great grandmother. Well, now that I think about it, maybe that's not a good comparison. Great grandma Howell was pretty scary as I recall, always sitting in that same room in that little house that smelled like dust and with tons of machines making all kinds of weird noises around her and tubes coming from every direction like octopus legs sneaking up on an unassuming plankton.
I called Elizabeth and asked for whomever was in charge of the Daddy Daughter Dance. The answer was not what I was looking for, but it was the answer I got. I guess secretly I was looking for Mr.Slattery, the school assistant principal., who I feel I have a connection with somehow. Maybe it's because I sat in his office, maybe it's because he knows my little girl. Maybe it's because he's just a nice guy, and probably around my age. Either way, I was transferred to Miss Nelson. I was fine with that. She was a teacher, not an assistant, which for some reason made me happy, I guess it was knowing that she had more pull than an assistant. Although, I like Sarah's teacher assistant more than her lead teacher. She told me she prays for me "more than you know". We share a tear most occasions we come into contact, which is probably monthly. I feel like I've known her for years, and she always leaves me feeling warmth in my heart after I see her and we get the chance to say a few words. That's all it take sometimes.
Miss Nelson, who sounded young, I'm guessing in her twenties, was receptive in answering my call. "Hi, this is Miss Nelson." It takes some getting used to for me, calling adults by their last name. At first, I wanted to know everyone's first name. I like being on a first name basis with people. It just makes sense to me as an adult, but not in elementary school and not in college. I'm vaguely remembering now. It's a sign of respect. It doesn't mean that you aren't going to have a good relationship. It just shows that you will respect that person that you are calling Miss so-n-so or Mr. so-n-so. Still. I volunteer at Myers Park, and I still don't want the girls calling me by my last name. It just feels weird, and it'll make me feel old, which is probably true, and I like running from the truth sometimes damn it.
"Hi Miss Nelson. This is Brooke Fairley. How are you?" Typical introduction if you are a Fairley. I explained that Sarah, my youngen (love that word), was in Kindergarten, and that she had expressed that she wanted to go to the DDD (Daddy Daughter Dance), but she was missing the first of the trifecta. I think my words were, "her father is nowhere to be found." Never been accused of being subtle. It's definitely not my strong suite, and I'm fine with it for now.
I can joke about it now, but in that moment that I was sitting on Mom's couch sounding out those words the moment was less jovial, and more uncomfortable. There was a lump, and it turned itself into a series of high pitched sentences that barely squeezed out of my throat. I was embarrassed, but more than that, I was sad. It was actually hitting me- that I needed to explain to some foreign person that Sarah did not have a father, and moreover it was not easy for me to say, nor to admit. And the combo of recognizing and admitting it aloud was too much for the both of us. She was probably thinking to herself, "Omg, what do I say to this mom?" And I was thinking to myself, "Omg, how do I say this without crying?" No matter what came out of both of our mouths, we both knew what the story was. She had heard it before, seen it before. I had told it before, and live it everyday. My question to her, was this, "Can Sarah's cousin come with her? She wants her to go." I probably could have spinned it better, but at the time being, that's the best I could do with what I had.
Miss Nelson explained very nicely to me that almost of the girls that attend Elizabeth go to the DDD, grand totaling close to 300 little princesses, and that there is simply not enough room to allow non-students to come. That it's great fun, that there's cake involved and pictures, and group dancing- mostly girls. She said the "daddies" mostly hover around the edges of the room, looking useless, probably sending text messages, checking the scores on their Iphones, and probably drinking from a flask. That's my rendition of it anyway.
I think she misunderstood my request. I wasn't telling her that Sarah was shy, that she didn't want to go to the dance unless she had her cousin. No, that couldn't be further from the truth. She would walk into packed courtroom as the star witness, not bat an eye, waltz right past the juror box and wink at the judge. She was born with no fear, no worry. My daughter could give a class on class, and I should probably sign up for it. But the point is, she didn't want Mackenzie to go because she felt worried that she wouldn't fit in, that she wouldn't know anyone. I think she wanted her cousin there to ease the stark reality- that Uncle Brad was not her beloved daddy. She might be young, but we're never too young to be wise.
It could be that she just loves her cousin. Maybe I'm reading too deeply into it, when really there is no hidden meaning, no intrinsic story, just a kid who wants to be with her cousin. Either way, it was not an easy call to make, and if I'm correct in my assumption, there will be many more calls like that in my future, many more explanations to Sarah of why her daddy doesn't call or come for Christmas or bring her gifts on her birthday. There will be many more heartbreaks for me. She will probably not feel the pangs as hard as I will, because she doesn't know what it's like to have a daddy who does the right thing, who supports her, who loves her. She might one day, but until that happens, I will be happy to be both superstar mom and makeshift dad. If I ever have a doubt about what my gifts are, taking care of her will never be one them. It's a privilege.
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