Dinner With My Daughter

[This was written a few years ago the day after I met with my daughter.]

I had dinner with my daughter last night. She was arriving from out-of-town, and since our house was closer than her condo, she dropped by to see us. She and I ended up going to a Mexican restaurant together.

While munching on chips, she complained that she was suffering from jet lag.

“That means that your soul is out of time phase and hasn’t caught up with you yet,” I explained.

“Umm hmm.”

“So you shouldn’t get online for a while,” I continued.

“Why is that?”

“Because when you IM or in a chat room, your persona is extra-geographical.” I was patient in my explanation.

“I see. Extra-geographical. Have some cheese dip.”

“Yeah. And if your persona, which would exist outside of geography, meets up with your soul that is outside of time, you would become a ghost. In fact, that is where ghosts come from.”

She mulled this over for a second and responded, “But Dad, there were ghosts before the internet and flying.”

“Well, I’m working on that part.”

“You’re in your weird zone, aren’t you?”

I don’t see my daughter as much as I want to these days. She is 33 and has her own life, most of which doesn’t involve me. I try to console myself with the knowledge that ‘the love between parent and child is the only love that must grow toward separation’. The words are easier than the reality. Although we are close and talk freely with other, I feel the loss of her daily presence.

“Toby wants to have lunch with us sometime soon,” she informs me. Toby is a quadriplegic attorney that works with the same firm as my daughter. He is developing quite a reputation in litigation circles. In fact, there was a local TV special about him – something like ‘Success: Against All Odds’.

“We can have lunch with him, but I don’t want to feed him!” She giggled. Usually Toby has a nurse with him that feeds him, although many times dinner companions from the law firm take up the duty – a meaningful show of respect and intimacy.

“Okay, I’ll tell him that.”

“Also tell him that I will throw food at him if he is hungry. It would be up to him to catch it in his mouth.”

“Okay, I’ll tell him.”

Never one to leave well enough alone, I continued. “In fact, we should go to an Italian place, and I could throw spaghetti at him.” We started giggling at this notion. “Besides, I have never trusted a lawyer that didn’t have food stains on his tie.” We tried to shake the image of spaghetti flying at Toby while he tries to catch it with his mouth.

My daughter and I have always enjoyed each other. As a child, she would always make a point of introducing all of her friends to me. During her slumber parties I would always do two things. The first was to cook for the kids – and the favorite became my made-up recipe for a Sugared Apple Cinnamon Cheese Omelet. Soon this became a standard request for me to make when her friends would come over. The second engagement I would have with her friends is to tell a story. And it became a traditional story. A really stupid story.

I would talk about an Indian child in the forest. I would very slowly and deliberately pantomime the Indian lad pulling an arrow from his quiver, notching the arrow into his bow string, pulling back the string to test the tension, then raise the bow and arrow straight up, pull back hard, and release the arrow into the air with a “Pfffffffft”.

Then I would whisper, slowly and wonderingly. “I shot an arrow into the air. Where it fell I know not where.” I would look around and up into the sky and peer into the distance for the arrow. Then I would shrug. Suddenly I would make the “Pffffffft” sound, and pound the side of my fist into the top of my head, to indicate the arrow hitting my head. This was very entertaining to my daughter’s childhood friends and they would always laugh and intone the “Pffffttt” themselves. But oddly, as my daughter grew older and her friends grew older, they always asked for the Sugared Apple Cinnamon Cheese Omelet and the arrow story. These were now high school kids, still laughing and rolling over the arrow hitting me in the head. In fact, for some this became sort of a secret signal. If I saw one of the kids somewhere, they would slam the side of their fist in their forehead, and I would do the same in return. Private, secret communications.

I slowly became a confessor to some of her friends. They would come to me with their problems and ask for advice on boyfriend problems or parent problems or teacher problems. I never had sage advice. I would just repeat their stories back to them from a slightly different slant and emphasize and exaggerate certain parts of the tale, then would ask them what advice they would give. Most of the time, they were right on the money. Then we would part with the fist-to-the-head signal.

As my daughter bit heartily into the Chicken Quesadillas, she started regaling me with her adventures on the latest case she is working on. She is a Paralegal. I tried to stay interested. But, in fact, I was more interested in the fact that she has become a success in her own right and that her interests have strayed far from her Dad and his omelets and arrow story.

I guess she and I really bonded when she was in the eighth or ninth grade. One day she refused to go to school and locked herself into her room. After repeated requests, she finally let me in. She sat on the foot of the bed sobbing while proclaiming that she hated school and her teachers were stupid and she doesn’t know what is wrong with her and nobody likes her and she hates her boyfriend and everything is so confusing and she is lost. I recognized it as the tumble of puberty and of growing up and the fear of responsibility that it was. I also recognized that there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. The best I could offer was a hug. So I sat beside her and hugged her, and suddenly all of my fears and heartache crashed through my defenses, and I began sobbing. So we sat there for fifteen minutes hugging and rocking and crying together while I would gasp things like, “Honey, I just don’t know what I can do to make things better”, and “I’m sorry – I’m so sorry that you are hurting.”

Years later she told me that she never felt such love and concern and protectiveness gushing out of me than during those fifteen tear-stained minutes. She went on to say that suddenly everything was better and that she felt whole. I think that was our true bonding time.

She finished her story and quesadillas and I finished my fajita enchiladas with queso. She then began talking about her argument with her mother, my ex, and how she was furious with what her mother said. She then asked if I agreed with her.

“You’re pretty pissed off, huh?”

“Damn right. What would you think if…..”, and she went on and on.

Finally I said, “Do you think you could forgive her for this ten years from now?”

No answer.

“After ten years has passed, could you finally forgive her for what she said?”

She answered slowly, “Well sure – after all that time. Sure.”

“Why don’t you just forgive her now, and get it over with. The incident will be the same, whether now or ten years from now.”

A long silence. Then she said quietly, “You know Dad, once every twenty years of so, you actually say something wise.”

We finished up, I paid for the food, and I walked her to her car. There we hugged and I told her I loved her, and she said, “I love you Daddy.”

I watched her drive off, and sauntered toward my car. Sadly. Perhaps I love her too much. Perhaps I want her to call more often. Perhaps I want more meals with her. Perhaps I want to sit with her and her friends and tell stories. Perhaps I would like her to move back home. Perhaps – perhaps things are just the way they are supposed to be. It’s a happy sad, I guess. But sad nonetheless.

[A few months later Elleana met an attorney online. After dating for a year and a half, Elleana and Michael married. A little over a year later they had a daughter, my granddaughter. Her name is Madison (Madi) Alexa. Below is a picture of her family including Catheryn, her step-daughter.]