This is the part that makes my relationship with my parents so hard. They’re loving. All their intentions are good. So it makes my frustration with the rest of their behavior tinged with guilt.
“Hi, Mom,” I murmur, gently extricating myself from the squeeze. “Food is already here, I see?”
“Your dad was worried they’d take a long time with the duck.”
“Even though they never do.”
“Well, there was that one time ...”
“When he didn’t even order duck,” I remind her.
“Well, it’s here now.” She waves the entire conversation off.
She grabs some plates and takes them to the table. I follow with cutlery, and we lay everything out together, busying our hands.
At our presence, my parents’ two large dogs start circling us with excitement. “Hey, Waldos,” I say, reaching down to give both pit bull mixes a pat. One is tan and black while the other is a blueish gray, but yes, both are named Waldo. My parents thought it was easier because “then they both feel loved whenever we call for them.” I think it’s more that they never get sick of saying “Where’s Waldo?” and then cracking themselves up, as though it’s a joke they’ve never said before.
George trots away the minute the Waldos arrive, and I don’t really blame him. He can hold his own, but they’re bumbling, and it’s not worth it for him to stay near their increasingly speedy tails.
“Whatcha reading lately?” my mom asks. This is our safest subject. I got my love of reading from her, and even while other topics remain fraught, we can always find common ground with books.
“I’m reading this series about a female detective after World War One. There’s like fifteen books, so it’s been nice to just keep reading.”
“Are you sure it isn’t World War Two?” she asks, abandoning table setting and now on the floor with one of the Waldos.
“Nope,” I say, trying to not let her airiness irk me this soon after arrival. “I’ve read four books already, so I’m pretty sure when it’s set.”
“Huh,” she says, standing up. “I must be thinking of something else. How’s the endings?”
She winks at me, and I hate when she does this playful dismissal of my reading habits. Yes, I do skim the last chapter of a book before reading it. I don’t like the stress of not knowing. But ever since she found out a few years ago, she’s loved to tease me about it, despite my asking her about twenty times to stop.
“They’re good,” I reply. I want to say, once again, that the journey is still there even if you know it turns out okay. But I also don’t want to get into this again with her. “What are you reading?” I ask, switching gears onto her, a surefire tactic to change the subject.
“Oh mygoodness.” Her eyes light up as though I’ve just asked her the most exciting question on earth. “I discovered this new writer, and I think you’re going toloveher. Her name is Glennon Doyle.”
“Is the book ...Untamed?” I ask, trying to keep my voice flat.
“Yes!” she says. I don’t need to mention that that book has sold millions of copies. “It’s very powerful. Important stuff about breaking free of society’s expectations.”
I look around this kooky room, stuffed from floor to ceiling with bookshelves and bric-a-brac, walls covered in nude abstract paintings, deflated beanbags lining the floor, and a chandelier made of clock sculptures.No onecould be confused about whether my mother was living a life constrained to society’s expectations.
“I’ll have to give it a look,” I say, hoping that will save me from a lecture about embracing my true self or whatever else is probably coming to me.
“You really should. It’s very powerful,” she repeats as she wanders away. I sigh and go grab the glassware to finish the table. “Nathan!” I hear her shout at my dad from another room. “Where’s the treats for the Waldos?”
“Tina? Did I hear Nora’s here?”
He’s shouting from the bathroom, and lord knows why they couldn’t have this conversation once he finishes.
“Yeah, she just got here!” she shouts back. “But the treats?”
“Oh, I think I put them on the bookshelf.”
“Good thinking!” she says, inexplicably.Good thinking?
I never know whether to believe that my parents were made for each other or that two such similarly harebrained people never should’ve been allowed to partner up. I know I’m lucky to have parents who still love each other (and perhaps show that a little more openly than I need sometimes). But I also remain shocked that they haven’t imploded on themselves at this point.
But maybe that’s just because we’ve always been so different. I’ve always taken life seriously and gravitated toward others who do too.I preferred puzzles to make-believe as a kid. My parents loved me for who I was, but I’m not sure any of us ever truly understood each other, even from a young age.
