Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

So things are rolling along because that is simply what is supposed to happen. The sun comes up, we put our feet on the floor and we Just.  Keep.  Going.

We don’t have a choice here.  Kids need their lunches packed, they need their $260 in field trip money and (at least twice a week) they need to be sent back upstairs to take off dirty clothes or re-brush their teeth.  Husbands need to know where their keys are, what they’re doing Saturday night and the release date of the Teen grounding.  Someone needs to be in charge, right? Still, it’s been a blessing since my mom’s death:  many, many days of late I have thanked my lucky stars to be so mercilessly busy and distracted by the back to school, back to work, and back to business travel (for James) that commenced with our sad summer’s end.

And well, well, well…  Just when I thought our family funnies would never be back in full force, my 89-year-old step-father moved in with us.  Now – through no intention of his own -- some days are just endlessly hilarious (to my sister.  Who drove five hours to drop him off here). J

For those just tuning in, here are all the quick numbers:  my stepdad, Lee, is 20 years older than my mom, who died 8 weeks ago after a blink-and-it-was-over 6 month cancer nightmare.  They would have been married 30 years and it is now increasingly amusing (or, annoying, depending on PMS) that we must live in the reality that in those 30 years, Lee has never written out a check, learned the name of his mortgage institution or cooked himself any item of food that wouldn’t be served at a 6-year-old’s birthday party.

(Really:  his face scrunches at the mention of chicken, meatloaf, pork chops and steak, but throw a few Perdue nuggets in the microwave and the feast is on.   Bliss.  No complaints here.  There are worse problems, I know.)

The room that had just recently been converted to my happy TV roomhas become his personal Judge Judy room/sleeping room/hanging with the dog room.  From his perch on his motorized recliner (think Ejecto-Seat), he watches the comings and goings on of the house’s occupants and never feels too alone for too long (naturally with the exception of school hours, when the house is usually empty).

I feel for him.  After living with my sister for the last few months, he’s feeling like a piece of Samsonite right now.  Plus, he’s sad.  A lot.  He’s never visited my home without my mom and I know he becomes consumed by his memories – especially in his solo time.

But we’re all adapting.  The kids are great with him – not very considerate when screeching through doorways or pounding on their heels down hallways – but very attentive to him.  Yes, they make me mental most of the time but I’ve got to admit…these moments wake up that slumbering Proud Mom blob in my stomach.  Think I’ll keep ‘em.

Without a doubt he’s as irritating as any other 89-year-old-who’s-never-fended-for-himselfwidow would probably be.  He’s happiest telling stories, listening to the kids banter and going out to dinner.  Period.  (Legit, I don’t really think ANYthing else falls into his happiness category.)

So we’ll keep rolling. 

And let my sister take a breath or two for a few weeks. (Months, she’s saying, Months…)

But with full disclosure I will say this guy is getting shipped back to Jersey the minute he scrunches up his face at my pancakes.

-- Tina Drakakis