Self-parenting

You spend over 40 years raising them and you think to yourself that by the time they're in their 60s, it's OK to kick your parents out of the nest. Silly me.

It started an envelope found in my mother's mailbox on December 24. According to the information in it, my father's two rental properties were up for foreclosure. I wrote on Facebook that I was beyond livid. And then I let it go.

This was followed by a phone call from a cousin last night. A quick internet search verified the information. My father had lost the house he had had with my stepmother since 1986. Called my cousin back and then a few other relatives as well as close family friends. No one knew. One of my uncle's responded to the news with, "Nothing happens without God's permission." By the time I got to the fourth or so phone call I could no longer hold back the tears.

My father had sent me a text message this past week saying how he had missed my presence at Christmas dinner. I chose last night to respond. "Did you bother to remove anything from the house before the bank sold it in the foreclosure? Like photos? You continually lie and that's why I can't be around you. As I said before, I wish you well in life but you can't be a part of mine."

He replied this morning. Explained that he is a recovering alcoholic (because apparently wine is not alcohol) and that lying is part of his disease. I know. But it's still lie after lie. That he plans on making amends to all those he has hurt. That he's dealing with the foreclosure and is trying to buy the house back from the people who bought it. (Ummm. Apparently they are already living in the house. And they bought it for less than half of the market value.) And the closer? That he really needs me to be his daughter again. My mother says that my response to all of this should be, "Fuck you." I am thinking, "There is no need to make amends to me as there is nothing you can say or do that would ever make me trust you again."

Fortunately I had today off from work. So after a few more tears this morning, I realized that I was hungry. And I wanted beef. Comfort foods. Because sometimes that's how I take care of me.

The summer I was ten, my grandmother bought me the cookbook pictured above. (Silly me forgot to include the cookbook in the photo.) I read through it and prepared my first dinner ever. Meatloaf, mashed potatoes and peas with pearl onions. This time I added gravy. And I decided to use a little more "grown-up" recipe. It was just what I needed.