On Christmas Eve Day, while my father has been enthusiastically zzzzzzing, I have been in the attic busy finding and separating and rearranging all the holiday boxes that contain our holiday decorations. Boxes, boxes, and more boxes. Once Christmas is over, and we pack everything up, there will be still more boxes.
Where do they end?
I'd ask my wife, but she'd only get mad. I don't mind the silent treatment, what I mind is the lack of womanly affection that comes with the silent treatment at no extra cost.
Every year, when I put them back in our attic, I stack them neatly and with great care. When the holiday comes rolling back around, I don't know how they get mixed in with all the other holiday boxes we have there, or who goes up there and mixes them in with all the other holiday boxes, but mixed in is the condition I find them in.
I don't ask anybody about this. Why bother? If I did, I'd start sounding like my Dad, and pretty soon I'd be blaming my grandson.
Meanwhile, my wife has been busy, too. She's been busy cleaning and cooking and cleaning some more. She likes to clean the way I like to drink coffee.
Like most women, she is a multi-tasker. At my age, she's lucky to get me to do one thing at a time, much less several things at once. In my defense, whatever I do, I do very well.
When I finally take a break to do what real men do (i.e. watch sports) my Dad walks into the kitchen. He stands at the entrance and looks around for a few minutes. I'm thinking he was probably on his way to the restroom and forgot where it's at. It's in his room. Somehow he took a wrong turn, ended up in the kitchen, and is now really confused. The look on his face tells me he's probably thinking, "I better not sneeze, because I have to empty my bowels, but how did I end up the kitchen?"
If there's one thing my Dad knows what to do, it's make lemonade out of lemons.
"I'm hungry," he tells my wife.
"Good," my wife says, "because I've just finished cooking. Do you want me to serve you a plate?"
Where do they end?
I'd ask my wife, but she'd only get mad. I don't mind the silent treatment, what I mind is the lack of womanly affection that comes with the silent treatment at no extra cost.
Every year, when I put them back in our attic, I stack them neatly and with great care. When the holiday comes rolling back around, I don't know how they get mixed in with all the other holiday boxes we have there, or who goes up there and mixes them in with all the other holiday boxes, but mixed in is the condition I find them in.
I don't ask anybody about this. Why bother? If I did, I'd start sounding like my Dad, and pretty soon I'd be blaming my grandson.
Meanwhile, my wife has been busy, too. She's been busy cleaning and cooking and cleaning some more. She likes to clean the way I like to drink coffee.
Like most women, she is a multi-tasker. At my age, she's lucky to get me to do one thing at a time, much less several things at once. In my defense, whatever I do, I do very well.
When I finally take a break to do what real men do (i.e. watch sports) my Dad walks into the kitchen. He stands at the entrance and looks around for a few minutes. I'm thinking he was probably on his way to the restroom and forgot where it's at. It's in his room. Somehow he took a wrong turn, ended up in the kitchen, and is now really confused. The look on his face tells me he's probably thinking, "I better not sneeze, because I have to empty my bowels, but how did I end up the kitchen?"
If there's one thing my Dad knows what to do, it's make lemonade out of lemons.
"I'm hungry," he tells my wife.
"Good," my wife says, "because I've just finished cooking. Do you want me to serve you a plate?"
My Dad is now really confused.
"Hmmm, ahhh, well," he says. Click, click, click. Smack! Smack! Smack! He blows his nose, which is a new addition to his repertoire, and tells her, "I think I'll go for a walk."
Say what?
Say what?
Now I have to wait to eat.
My wife had wanted to serve me earlier, but out of the kindness of my heart, I told her that I would wait for my father. Today, I had decided that I would not only eat with my father, but actually sit at the table with him. I've stopped doing that for awhile now, because of all the noises my Dad makes when he eats. It's hard for me to even sit with him to watch his beloved baseball on TV, but I try because that's what good sons do.
My wife had wanted to serve me earlier, but out of the kindness of my heart, I told her that I would wait for my father. Today, I had decided that I would not only eat with my father, but actually sit at the table with him. I've stopped doing that for awhile now, because of all the noises my Dad makes when he eats. It's hard for me to even sit with him to watch his beloved baseball on TV, but I try because that's what good sons do.
As my father is on his way out, his bug eyes tell me that someone is wrong. He starts digging in his pockets, patting his pants, checking the top button of his shirt and the top of his head.
"Where are my sunglasses?" he says, but it sounds more like an accusation. "I just had them in my hand. Someone must have taken them from me. Where's the baby?"
"The baby" is what he calls my grandson--his great-grandson--whom he's always accusing of taking things like a toddler wraith from his little father-in-law house.
He's checked everywhere, and, like Santa, he's even checked twice. My wife walks over to help him."The baby" is what he calls my grandson--his great-grandson--whom he's always accusing of taking things like a toddler wraith from his little father-in-law house.
"What are you going to do?" he tells her. "I've looked everywhere."
She immediately finds his sunglasses in the front pocket of his shirt. The ONE place he didn't look.
"I didn't look there," he says, sheepishly.
"I'll serve you when you get back from your walk," she tells him.
"Serve me what?"
"Food."
"I have to go to the bathroom," he says.
Now I have to wait even longer to eat.
Is all this really worth the inheritance he's going to leave me?
I've seen his bank statements.
Yes, it is.
RaisingMyFather
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