smoking with margaret
So I had dinner the other day.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking i just sat at the table where I always sit, across from my mom and next to my dad.
Well the thing is, since the first week of finals, my dad hasn't been around. Not a lot, anyway. He's been leaving the house early, coming back at unusual times, not telling us where he's going (and when we ask, he starts yelling and getting all defensive), locking himself in his office, and pretty much ignoring the family. And it's so weird... he promised during Spring Break, after I had that huge blowout fight with my mom, he'd stay involved in our lives, especially mine, since he's never been around. He wasn't exactly around, but he picked me up from school and acted like a dad. He drove me to In-N-Out, sometimes watched TV with me, sometimes cursed around with me and did all this stuff that dads are supposed to do: bond. He's always been busy with work. So he worked on the weekends, but sometimes he'd go to church with us. And since Spring Break, he's been going with us all the time. He totally stayed true to his word. And I was happy that I finally had a full-time dad.
Until, of course, the first week of finals.
I don't have a dad. Not anymore.
So I had dinner the other day.
And I also did almost 11 years ago. I was 4. And my dad was teaching me how to ride a bike. Attempting to, at least. And failing. He gave me my sister's old bike and expected me to ride it. When I couldn't just do it (since he just put it in front of me and expected me to ride it) and I fell down and started to cry, he got pissed at me. He tried to ride me and then let go. I couldn't keep my balance and I fell down. He yelled at me again. I rode again. I couldn't stop the bike. I fell down another time. By this time my knees were replaced with blood and scars and the scent of rubbing alcohol that my mother put on the freshly made ones. My dad got mad at me again. He was forced to get me training wheels. And then I never rode my bike again. And I still can't ride it.
So I had dinner the other day.
For about more than a week I've been really really sick. It started off as a headache. And then as a fever. Then, as Veronica suspects, it grew into a stomach flu. The other day, it became worse. I could barely move. The only thing getting me out of bed was to go to the bathroom for the thousandth time. I had bags under my eyes. My bangs weren't bangs. I was extremely sensitive to light. I was too hot and I was too cold. My stomach hurt so much and my head hurt and I felt like something inside me was pulling violently and recklessly on my intestines. When I was under light, I would start sweating. I slept the whole day. I had a scar on my nose and on the side of my cheek.
My mom finally convinced me to get out of bed for dinner. I'd gotten a little better and I could barely walk, but I went anyway. I hadn't been able to eat, or else I would throw up, but I was really hungry since I skipped every meal for the past few days. Much to my surprise, my dad was at the dinner table. I was sweating. The light from the dinner lamp was beating on me and my eyes were burning. I asked my dad to turn off the light.
"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SEE MY FOOD?!"
So I walk over to the light switch (which is 5 feet away) still clutching my stomach and turn off the light. It took me a million years to get there since I could barely walk, anyway. Right when I sit down he turns on the light. I get an even worse headache and hold my head in my hand at the table. All he asks is why my nose is red. I dismiss the question and he goes and starts talking about my sister (who he knows I don't get along with since our huge fight) and how she's moving into Washington. He doesn't look at me for the rest of dinnertime or say anything when I leave the table. Unexcused. Since the first week of finals.
I wish I had a dad.
Because the one I have sure isn't acting like one.
A real dad is supposed to care about their kid. They're supposed to be there to talk to, someone easy to joke around with. The ones who teach you how to drive. To be in your life, or at least, every weekend. They're supposed to listen. They're supposed to go to your big school event and take pictures and tell you everything is okay. They're not supposed to make you cry every week or make you feel like you're pushed down when you literally or figuratively can't get up.
I used to have a dad.
Why did he leave?
He probably doesn't want me as a kid, anyway.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking i just sat at the table where I always sit, across from my mom and next to my dad.
Well the thing is, since the first week of finals, my dad hasn't been around. Not a lot, anyway. He's been leaving the house early, coming back at unusual times, not telling us where he's going (and when we ask, he starts yelling and getting all defensive), locking himself in his office, and pretty much ignoring the family. And it's so weird... he promised during Spring Break, after I had that huge blowout fight with my mom, he'd stay involved in our lives, especially mine, since he's never been around. He wasn't exactly around, but he picked me up from school and acted like a dad. He drove me to In-N-Out, sometimes watched TV with me, sometimes cursed around with me and did all this stuff that dads are supposed to do: bond. He's always been busy with work. So he worked on the weekends, but sometimes he'd go to church with us. And since Spring Break, he's been going with us all the time. He totally stayed true to his word. And I was happy that I finally had a full-time dad.
Until, of course, the first week of finals.
I don't have a dad. Not anymore.
So I had dinner the other day.
And I also did almost 11 years ago. I was 4. And my dad was teaching me how to ride a bike. Attempting to, at least. And failing. He gave me my sister's old bike and expected me to ride it. When I couldn't just do it (since he just put it in front of me and expected me to ride it) and I fell down and started to cry, he got pissed at me. He tried to ride me and then let go. I couldn't keep my balance and I fell down. He yelled at me again. I rode again. I couldn't stop the bike. I fell down another time. By this time my knees were replaced with blood and scars and the scent of rubbing alcohol that my mother put on the freshly made ones. My dad got mad at me again. He was forced to get me training wheels. And then I never rode my bike again. And I still can't ride it.
So I had dinner the other day.
For about more than a week I've been really really sick. It started off as a headache. And then as a fever. Then, as Veronica suspects, it grew into a stomach flu. The other day, it became worse. I could barely move. The only thing getting me out of bed was to go to the bathroom for the thousandth time. I had bags under my eyes. My bangs weren't bangs. I was extremely sensitive to light. I was too hot and I was too cold. My stomach hurt so much and my head hurt and I felt like something inside me was pulling violently and recklessly on my intestines. When I was under light, I would start sweating. I slept the whole day. I had a scar on my nose and on the side of my cheek.
My mom finally convinced me to get out of bed for dinner. I'd gotten a little better and I could barely walk, but I went anyway. I hadn't been able to eat, or else I would throw up, but I was really hungry since I skipped every meal for the past few days. Much to my surprise, my dad was at the dinner table. I was sweating. The light from the dinner lamp was beating on me and my eyes were burning. I asked my dad to turn off the light.
"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SEE MY FOOD?!"
So I walk over to the light switch (which is 5 feet away) still clutching my stomach and turn off the light. It took me a million years to get there since I could barely walk, anyway. Right when I sit down he turns on the light. I get an even worse headache and hold my head in my hand at the table. All he asks is why my nose is red. I dismiss the question and he goes and starts talking about my sister (who he knows I don't get along with since our huge fight) and how she's moving into Washington. He doesn't look at me for the rest of dinnertime or say anything when I leave the table. Unexcused. Since the first week of finals.
I wish I had a dad.
Because the one I have sure isn't acting like one.
A real dad is supposed to care about their kid. They're supposed to be there to talk to, someone easy to joke around with. The ones who teach you how to drive. To be in your life, or at least, every weekend. They're supposed to listen. They're supposed to go to your big school event and take pictures and tell you everything is okay. They're not supposed to make you cry every week or make you feel like you're pushed down when you literally or figuratively can't get up.
I used to have a dad.
Why did he leave?
He probably doesn't want me as a kid, anyway.