Everydaystranger

Three weeks ago my father and stepmom were here.

They flew in, in a haze of suitcases, presents for the babies, and onion bagels from the Panerra close to their house. They came armed with a baby doll that Nora won’t put down and a kiddie radio for Nick that plays 50 billion children’s songs, all (naturally) at top volume. My folks came and kicked us out of the house because they wanted to be alone with their grandbabies. We were only too delighted to take them up on it, and so flew to Switzerland, where we rode trains around the countryside and took in the absolutely stunning sites. When we returned my folks had cleaned and organized the entire house from top to bottom. I felt ashamed. I felt grateful.

The babies were the center of attention with their grandparents. Papa, they call my Dad, his grandpa-moniker. Papa, they say, looking expectantly at him. Papa, papa, papa. My dad goes to pieces when they call him that. My stepmom is Gagka. Gagka is grandma and she lights up when they say it. She is absolutely spectacular with the babies, I think she may have the largest heart of anyone I know. My stepmom is someone I never knew as a kid, but I knew my dad, and watching him with the babies is a marvel. Things don’t bother him like they did when I was a kid. He’s not the same person, and neither am I.

We were sitting on the couches in the living room, the doors open to the sunshine. The babies were bringing book after book after book to their Papa, who dilligently read every page of every single one of them. In between one of their treks to the box of books, my Dad looked over and grinned.

“I’m reading to them,” he announced, just in case I hadn’t noticed.

“I see,” I replied, in the middle of folding laundry. “At least they get read to!” I joked. “When I was a kid you’d just open the book and say ‘A man was born, he lived, and he died!’ and then throw the book down.”

I arranged the folded clothes in the clothes basket and looked up to see Dad looking at me. He was frowning.

“You’re right, Shannon. I did do that.”

I smiled. “It’s no big deal, Dad. I was kidding.”

“But I did do that,” he repeated, looking down. “I was a really bad Dad, you know.”

Wow. “It’s ok Dad,” I replied. I wasn’t going to disagree with him, to let him off the hook. He was a really bad father. But it is ok, it’s ok now. it’s ok after all these years and all this psychotherapy and the arrival of two little people.

“I’m sorry,” he said. It’s not the first time he has apologized nor, I suspect, will it be the last.

“It’s cool, it’s why I’ve got therapy,” I said, only half-joking.

Nick and Nora padded over, each bearing solemn expressions and numerous books. My Dad looked at them. “They’re my second chance,” he said softly.

I looked at the two tow-headed babies, the do-overs for a few of us in that room. They are his second chance and I don’t begrudge him that chance. We all fuck up. Admitting we fuck up is the hard part, the part that no one in my family seems able or willing to do. We are the Unforgiving. My father has fucked up but here he is, not only apologizing but hoping to make it right by his grandchildren. He can have a second attempt at being a father – albeit a grandfather – and it’s in my power to let him.

“They are your second chance,” I agreed. I smiled. “Don’t fuck up this time, yeah?”

“I won’t,” he says earnestly. “And I will kill anyone who ever hurts one of my babies,” he said, looking down at them. He’s not going to screw up again. He’ll make all kinds of new mistakes, but he is a different man – a different father – and although neither of us intend on seeing the two little people as our redemption, the truth is that in some ways, they are.

And this is the thing – I call them my babies, but they’re not just my babies. They’re Alastair’s babies and my father’s babies and my stepmother’s babies and their big sister and brother’s babies and they’re my blog babies.

I tell you this story because I am going to keep going and because, apart from the rare exception, I’m not going to talk about my dad and stepmom here in order to help my dad in his hopes to be re-united with that miserable scroat his other grandchildren. I’m not going to blog about family and I’m not going to blog about my relationship with Alastair, and if that makes me seem less real or makes you less inclined to read, well…I can’t please everyone. I’m also not able to be the 5-days-a-week blogger I used to be. My Couch Man says I need to get some boundaries. I’m taking him up on that now. But some soul-searching this weekend showed me that maybe Everyday Stranger doesn’t need me, but I need it. I want a place to talk about tampons. My therapy. Home renovations. Books. My random day-to-day shit that I want to park somewhere. My memories.

And these two items:

Maybe I am a mommy blogger.

We all have to be something though, don’t we?

-S.