I love Saturday-morning showers. During the week, Casey and I both are rushed to get ready in the morning, so my shower lasts approximately 3.7 minutes, every second of which is filled with the cries of phantom children. But on Saturday mornings, we are able to take things more slowly. We lie around in bed. Casey works out in the garage. The kids putter around while we both watch HGTV and drink coffee. Saturday mornings are chill. Usually, I don't even get in the shower on Saturdays until we are ready to get out of the house, and when I do, I don't have to worry about rushing because Casey has nowhere to be. I can stand under the water motionless for minutes at a time. I can leave the conditioner in my hair for the recommended duration. I can even SHAVE MY LEGS. It's almost miraculous. What's even better about this showering experience is that Casey almost always takes this time to get the baby dressed, an experience that is not unlike wrestling a drunk alligator who screams unceasingly in fury. And it's always such a fun surprise to see what Arnold's wearing, too, because Casey dresses the children far more cutely than I do. Overall, Saturday mornings cannot be beat.
A few weeks ago, I got out of the shower, rejuvenated by the miracle that is Saturday morning, and got myself dressed fairly quickly so we could head out the door. I turned out of my bedroom to see Casey holding Arnold, as is usually the case, but instead of being amused by Arnold's preciousness, I was absolutely shocked by what I saw. There in Casey's arms was a little boy wearing the bright orange Albuquerque Biopark t-shirt that my dad had bought for Marshall during our trip a few years ago. It really took the wind out of me. Seeing my young son, whom my father will never meet, wearing a shirt my father had bought, was one of the most surreal experiences I've ever had. And it shouldn't have been really - we have all sorts of stuff around the house that my dad has seen or given us. I guess I was just surprised because I hadn't realized Arnold was big enough to wear the shirt. But after seeing the shirt, I realized that, yes, the timeline was right. Arnold is now the age that Marshall was during the trip. He is rapidly approaching the age that Marshall was when my dad died. I immediately asked Marshall to take a picture so I could remember the moment.
This moment in the hallway with my son filled me with such an aching feeling of grief, but even though I've considered myself mostly recovered from dad's death (my last blog post was over a year ago), this isn't the first emotional moment I've experienced since coming to Lake Charles. It could be that Lake Charles feels so much more like home - trees, waters, casinos - but I am beginning to think that it has a lot to do with Arnold's age and the stuff that goes along with it. According the natural progression of life with a second baby, we are always pulling out toys and clothes and things that Marshall used and that we can now give to Arnold. And Arnold really is the age that Marshall was during those last few months with dad, which are now such a special, if devastating, series of memories. During that period, dad and Lisa gave us so many toys for Marshall that a day doesn't go by when Arnold is playing with something that, when traced, leads me straight back to my dad and his love for his grandchild.
Most of the time when Arnold plays with one of these toys, I just smile and say something like, "My dad bought this toy!" Arnold, of course, has no clue what I'm talking about, but Marshall is much more receptive to these little reminders and accepts quite readily that my dad bought these things for him, years ago. Just this week, I stumbled across a present that Dad and Lisa had gotten Marshall for his second birthday, but I'd never given it to him. It was a Cars 2 gift set that included figures for all the cars in the movie, as well a book that explains each character. Although I'd probably give these cars to Arnold without hesitation now, I was absolutely certain that two-year-old Marshall would die if he played with anything before he had reached the recommended age of three. I guess I had thrown it up in a closet to retrieve later, only to forget about it.
When I spotted the gift set in the top of our guest room closet, its having been unearthed during our shuffle from house to house, I gasped, "I have a present for you from my dad!" It was in pristine condition, unopened, and a perfect gift for a boy who has only just started playing Cars 2 on the playstation. "What is it?!" Marshall cried, delighted to have something new. He opened the box and pulled out the cars one by one, pushing them across every available surface. "You be the bad cars, and I'll be Lightning McQueen and Mater," he said. "Let's put the bad cars in this garage." It was a sweet moment, one that made me feel wistful for my father but also grateful I'd ever had him at all.
Each time one of the boys plays with a toy from my father, I feel that same mixture of appreciation and sadness. It's a nice feeling in many ways because it makes me feel like my dad is somehow playing with his grandchildren, enjoying time with a little boy he barely knew and another one he has never met. Arnold's wearing the Albuquerque Biopark shirt was a similar sensation, but it was much more tangible, almost spooky. My dad had held Marshall the day he'd bought the shirt. Now Arnold was wearing the shirt. Therefore, my dad was holding Arnold. If was as if I were witnessing a scene in a science fiction movie where the face of a character flickers, revealing a pixilated version of some other person. While this is crazy talk, I know, I felt a real connection with the past in that moment that made me so, so sad.
Something I've begun to experience, though, beyond the simple, sad pleasure of seeing the boys play with stuff my father has purchased, is the difficult reality that one day we won't need these gifts from my father any more. Soon, Arnold will be beyond the age of 2, at which point my father died and could no longer buy us gifts for Marshall. Arnold will have outgrown my father's thoughtfulness.
In some cases, it's already happened. For a while in my late twenties, Casey and I did a lot of mountain biking and outdoorsy stuff. So when we had Marshall, my dad bought this awesome hiker's backpack for kids - that is, you strap the KID on your back so that you can go hiking. Once we moved to Amarillo, it seemed like the perfect gift because we lived near Palo Duro Canyon, which had some cool walking trails. Unfortunately, though, Marshall was in his independent phase then (much like Arnold now), and he didn't want to ride. Plus, he had already pushed past the weight limit on the pack (30 lbs), so it probably wouldn't have been safe, anyway. I put the pack in my attic, determined to use it for another Gardner child came along. And when Arnold appeared, one of my first thoughts was, "WE WILL USE THE BACKPACK." It was important to me that my dad's gift be used. But guess what? We never did. He's just under the weight limit now, so we might could squeak out one outing. In fact, when I heard about a spooky Halloween trail here in Lake Charles, I actually thought, "WE WILL USE THE BACKPACK." But I know Arnold will have nothing to do with being toted. He's never been a baby who wanted to be carried. And unless we decide to start carrying Dodie against her will in a hiker's backpack, this is one gift from my dad that I've squandered.
Some of the gifts from my father have been removed from our life quite unexpectedly, and with real regret. When we went to visit dad once, he gave us this old plastic Big Wheel, a low-to-the-ground tricycle thing that Cole Thomas, my nephew, used when he was young. Marshall was a little big for the bike when we got it, but like the backpack, I've been lugging it around, waiting for the right time to use it. Arnold is finally approaching the age where he might use the big wheel, and after moving to Lake Charles, we starting leaving it out in the garage so that Arnold could push it around a little. Alas, a few weeks ago, I was trying to back out of the garage, and I actually ran it over with the van. I didn't just crush it - the bike actually got wedged between the wheel and the bumper! As Casey attempted to remove the big wheel from the undercarriage of the car, I held my breath, the absolute picture of optimism. We will still get use out of the Big Wheel, I reassured myself. Arnold WILL ride it. But when Casey finally pried it out, the little bike was nothing more than a piece of crushed plastic.
Even in the face of these squandered and ruined gifts, there are actually some things my dad gave us that we are actively considering removing from our lives. The other day, Facebook shared a memory with me, a memory of my dad: "The glider is shipped and on its way!" he had written on my wall.* "Oh," I thought, feeling an instant mix of grief and guilt. This, of course, is the glider that dad bought us when we were expecting Marshall, a hugely significant gift, one that we've used a lot with Arnold. But if I'm going to be honest about it, the chair really annoys us most of the time. It has never worked exactly right - it will lock unexpectedly while rocking or won't unlock at all. And though I can't really blame this on the chair itself, we rammed the rocker into the wall of our new house within the first 24 hours of moving in, knocking a hole in our beautiful, newly constructed home. Just last night, Casey exclaimed, "I hate this chair!" And his feelings are valid - I hate it, too. But how do I get rid of the chair that my dad bought for his new grandchild, a chair that we have used with his second? I have already vowed to keep the orange Albuquerque shirt for all time. Surely, this vow of remembrance should apply to this chair! I just don't know what to do.
I suppose all of this is just the nature of death. People live. They die. The world, however changed, moves on. I remember typing one of my earlier blogs, the one about listening to this Paul Simon song my dad had emailed me about once, and I had actively sobbed and sobbed and sobbed while I typed. I don't feel that devastating sense of grief now. I feel an almost daily longing to see my dad, for him to see my family and what we've become. And sometimes I do cry over him, when I'm reminded of my life with him or stumble across a candid picture. But I now know that my world can go on without him. I could go on without all of the stuff - the backpack, the toys, the glider. But I think that's what scares me the most. Without these things, will I slip further and further away from him? Is it just too far?
Okay, I'm crying a little now. But I've made it halfway to Saturday.
* Or something - I wanted to share this memory with you all verbatim, but I have tried in vain to find it on my timeline.
No comments:
Post a Comment