We were packing up to leave my parents house. No matter how far beyond the “baby stage” we
get, packing up and leaving from ANYWHERE is ALWAYS still an involved process, a logistical multitasking shit show that involves at least one crying kid,
one or two forgotten items and mass chaos, tempered only by the reassuring thought
that a glass of wine awaits me at home….
IF we ever get there.
You would THINK this task would get easier as time goes on, but no, it doesn’t. Clothes get bigger, demands get greater, car snacks get pickier, and you are faced with the option of remembering each and every stuffie the child has packed or facing the wrath of Beanie Boo Misfortune for accidentally leaving beloved creepy big eyed rainbow unicorn behind, tragically separating her from her beloved pink and purple coloured big eyed racoon mother named Roxie. The horror, the horror.
Recently, our departures from my parents’ house have been
complicated by my dad’s escalating anxiety; he doesn’t like to see people
leave. He ESPECIALLY doesn’t like to see
family leave. And the commotion of us
packing up combined with the impending knowledge that SOMEONE is departing is
just too much for him. OH, the questions
he asks…
On this particular occasion Toby was lying on the couch with a fever, I was trying to pack snacks for
the car ride, get both kids dressed with teeth
brushed, load the car and entertain a bored Mia while simultaneously attending to my dad’s lamentations,
“Oh, Lyssie…!!!” he bemoaned “It looks like you are LEAVING
ME!”
“Yes, Dad, that’s because we are going home today.”
“OH, NO! Please
stay! Say as long as you can! How long have you been here?”
“Since Friday”
“FRIDAY! Wow! Since Friday, eh?”
I run upstairs to get the toothbrushes as he yelled behind
me, “What day is it TODAY?”
“SUNDAY!!!” I yelled down the stairs as I frantically made
the kids beds and took one last look under the bed for any hidden Beanie Boos.
“OH, SHIT!” I heard him say from downstairs, “Sunday! Why can’t you stay until TOMORROW?”
I rushed down to console him before he could pull any other
words out of his vocabulary of “things-I-never-dared-to-say-until-I-had-dementia”
Mia, meanwhile was following me with a mysteriously big eyed
fox under her right arm (HOW MANY HAD SHE BROUGHT!!??!) . She was also holding a decrepit 1950s kids
book that she had found in her room and demanding that I read it to her and
Melanie the fox.
SUDDENLY I was struck with a brainwave.
“Mia,” I said earnestly, “I have to keep packing up the car but I BET if you took this book to Grandpa he might want to read it to you!”
It was either going to be a disastrous fail or the most
brilliant example of “killing two birds with one stone” that I had ever come up
with.
It could have gone either way, really, but much to my
surprise, my father was accepting of his granddaughter’s request. When handed a book, (APPARENTLY) he will
read. I honestly wasn’t sure that he
still knew HOW to read. But he did! Yet another grandfatherly trait was
unveiled. And what a beautiful, normal
moment my kids got to experience with him – sitting perched on the sofa beside
and behind him, listening with rapt captivation to his voice. My dad has a great voice for reading and for
a moment I got lost in the memory of all of those who have benefited from his
lectures – students, friends in his book club, classmates at Cambridge and
UofT…he has read some of the greatest works of literature and now here he was
reading…
I paused for a second
What WAS he reading to my kids?
“Jane soon befriended the little Indian girl from the
forest, “Ahoy, Reface! ‘ she said as she stared at her loincloth…”
OH, Lord…It was clearly too late to change books now. The kids (and my dad) were already quite
engrossed in the story of Jane and the little Indian Girl and who was I to
interrupt this perfect moment they were sharing? Besides…I had a car to pack.
Soon enough, the care was packed; Jane and the Indian girl
had become friends and were busy trapping wolves together when I finally
decided to interrupt. We said goodbye to
my father.
“I’ll MISS you I’ll MISS you I’ll MISS you” he emoted as he
kissed us each goodbye.
We waved frantically from the road and promised to return
soon.
“SO….” I said, turning around in my seat as soon as we were
on the highway, “Lets talk a little bit about that book Papa read to you…”
You’ll be glad to know that I DID explain to them that the
term “Indians” is no longer considered polite and that there are lots of “Indigenous peoples” who
don’t actually wear loin cloths or have pet wolves but are meaningful people in
society etc. etc.
I think the kids got it.
In fact, I KNOW that Toby got it.
I know that because we had butter chicken and tiki masala
for dinner. And as I raised my well
deserved glass of wine, the lingering memory of my dad’s impromptu story time
still glowing in my memory, I toasted to a good weekend, a safe trip home, and a
delicious Indian meal to come home to.
“Uh…. MOMMY!” my oh so perceptive and sensitive 8 year old
pointed out, “PLEASE! It’s called
INDIGINOUS FOOD!
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