She Got A Temper Though #HelpMe

You don’t have it? Okay, well take this sheet of paper and write it down here. Okay. …and so I began writing, in the neatest handwriting, on unlined paper. Just like Daddie.

I’m so over this whole entire thing. What more can I tell you about this man? I have filled out soooo many pieces of paper. But, I am who I am…sometimes, a writer…so let me get this done and we will be done with it. As I’m writing…

You’re 37? I will be eventually. You’re not married? No. You don’t have kids? No. So you’re not married and you don’t have kids… *was that a question?* No. Why aren’t you married? Because nobody asked me. What’s wrong with you? *these mf’in questions are what’s wrong with me* You mean or something? No, I’m not a mean person. You sure? *well, now that you mention it, I might be mistaken*

At this point, I have only written two sentences. They’re hella neat though. I look across from my mother who is exactly no help at all with this ridiculous line of questioning. Mom, this is over, you do it. I’m not writing this.

But maybe I should have kept writing because I think that made him feel like he could continue. You must be mean or something. I look over at my mother, the woman whose womb I occupied for 9 months…the easiest of the 7 births she endured. Help. Me. Mama…HELP. ME. HELP. ME.  Well, she’s not mean, but she got a temper though. She does have a nice personality. *mom, what in the ENTIRE F are you saying right now*

Seriously? I don’t like her.

He looks back to me like he’s got confirmation of something he knew. Anyone who’s been victim of my temper has earned it. This is the only part of the conversation my mother confirmed. She’s worthless. Okay, so let’s say you’re going out on a date. He wants to go to Outback, but you want to go Chili’s *I actually never want to go to either of these places, but hell, it’s not like my mother is going to help me out* …are you one of those types that gets mad when you can’t go to the place you want to go? I don’t get mad about things I don’t spend my money on. This is a non-issue. Well, you know some women are like that. See, me, I can find something to eat anywhere, but sometimes you want what you want.

Well, isn’t that lovely for you. Do you want to know what I want right now?

Sometimes I feel like my mother doesn’t love me. She does, but you are sitting across from me. You know me. You know my life. AND you obviously know my temper. And you’re just gonna let this ride? Under these circumstances? I don’t even want to be in this place. But, here I am, the oldest born 3^rd, so I have to be in this place.

This place = Funeral home.

Writing = My Father’s Obituary.

Guy = Funeral Director.

My Mother = Doesn’t Want Me To Be Great.

Yep. Daddie ain’t here no more. When I told Ernie the news he gave me two immediate pieces of advice. Don’t order any drinks (from the restaurant airport I was at…he actually said give it back but well, me) and write. I took none of his advice. When I write things, they become real…and this is something that could have remained fake news and alternative facts a few decades longer. And I ain’t wasting no alcohol, ever. But it was what I needed to hear. So much so, I would not let him call me. Text only. Because if you say something like that to me, I might come undone. And the way my life is now set up, there is no time for that.

I told him because of all the people in the world, he knew exactly what I was going through. Not because his daddie had passed. But his person had passed, just months ago. For some of us in the world, there is a person that connects us to it. Just one. They are your link to Earth. The only person in the world, with the sound of their eyes…the only person that can collect you, snatch your edges, give you the go ahead to pop off (Daddie was very, extremely, selective about this one…but sometimes I got a chance at greatness), encourage your dreams...

My father is the reason I am good – if you believe me to be good. The reason I am a writer –if you believe me to be so.  The reason I am a good friend – if you believe me to be your friend. The reason I am smart – if you believe UCLA and UCA were right about those pieces of paper they gave me…which hang on my parent’s wall today. And most importantly, the reason, the actual, specific, Earthly reason I love – if you believe that I love and or love you, in whatever ways love is meant. My father, my Daddie is my person. And he’s not here anymore. And that’s worse, much worse than the terrible awful. I am the child of a great man. I am the child of the greatest man.

The next day, because the gravity of this hasn’t quite set in, because grief…I think? My mom and I are at lunch. It starts to come back to me.

Mom, that was kinda weird yesterday? What was weird? The funeral home guy. Those questions. You think he was trying to hit on me or something? What’s wrong with that? *besides the freaking obvious?* MOM! Dad’s there…Like Daddie is literally there!!!! I can’t…I Can’t Do This With You! I think if you lived here in Texas he would have asked you out. Mom, that’s insane. There’s no way I would do that. Like ever. Why not? He has a job.

Does anyone need a mother? I have one. She’s not all there, but she’ll be super supportive of your quest for a partner in life. Because, Outback and Chili’s.

I think about that day at the Funeral Home (and the next one with my mother) because it’s the epitome of my relationship with my parents. If the roles were reversed, and we were making arrangements for my mother (not something I really want to think about, but…) there is no way that conversation would have gone that far. Daddie actually would have been pretty pissed. Which makes it funny. It’s almost comical just thinking about it because I know what my Daddie would have said and done. Because I got the chance to experience it, just weeks prior.

We were at my younger sister’s graduation party (Welcome to the Master’s Wheaty!) and someone asked when I was having a child. My other younger sister has just recently had a beautiful baby girl. Before I could come up with my see what had happened was… my father, my Daddie gave the most chilling, the most supportive, the most direct facial expression that the conversation literally ended. He said, without saying, that having a child is not the definition of her life. Should she have a child, it will be the most perfect child that ever lived. And if she chooses to not have children, she will still be perfect. Just like she is, right now. He cut his eyes so quickly and sharply, I felt like I needed to confirm that I wasn’t pregnant… This is the first time in my life that I didn’t have to explain myself. And the last time that he could protect me from it.

 

It is said, that Sigmund Freud once said, that there is possibly no greater need in childhood than a father’s protection. I would have to agree with him. I would venture to speculate that this need remains well into adulthood.

Especially if your mother is anything like mine. HELP. ME. N!**@!!!