(Postscript about Dad): Just because it's broken, doesn't mean it should be fixed.
As I predicted, the day after my parents got back from Israel, they dove into helping me finish setting up my apartment with gusto. They each contributed in the ways they know how (Mom took me food shopping, and Dad took me to his second office, Home Depot). I have two large pieces of art and one heavy decorative mirror that I needed help hanging, and the more time that’s passed with these items hanging out on the floor, waiting to be dealt with, the more flagrant became the fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend/partner hanging out with me. Well, single daughters make dads feel useful. So I went with it. At seven o’clock last night, after a long day shopping in NJ with my parents (a seven dollar train ride is worth the savings on sales tax), my mom commandeered the kitchen unpacking groceries and rearranging dishes. Dad got out his tool box.
Two hours later, after inspecting, marking, measuring, brow furrowing and looped “ahas” (he does this when he’s thinking), everything was up. The biggest piece was hung crooked, and when he asked me if it looked okay, I almost lied and said, “Great!” But instead, I told him gently that it looked just a little lopsided. He couldn’t see it at first, then… “Oh, you’re right.” He shook his head, “Your father’s getting old.” I realized, most father’s help their daughters hang shit up in their dorms, or when they’re in their twenties. It’s not my dad’s fault that I’m single in my thirties, subjecting him to heavy lifting in his sixties (with a bad back to boot).
By the time they left, dragging out bags of useless clothes and an old microwave they bought for my last apartment, we were all exhausted. And they were jet lagged too. But my dad’s face was aglow, his posture a touch straighter than it had been that morning, emanating pride and gratification for having been able to help me the way no other man could.
I fell into a deep sleep. At 5am, I was woken by a booming crash. My stomach dropped. I tiptoed out into the living room, already sensing what had happened. My gorgeous expensive mirror had fallen off the wall, taking a chunk of the wall with it, along with two big glass vases that had been on the dresser below it. My living room resembled a car crash site. I don’t remember if I turned the lights on to survey the specifics. Instead, I turned on my ignore switch and went back to bed, deciding to deal with it in the morning. It crossed my mind whether having written that blog about my dad the day before had come back to bite me in the ass, but I knew there was no use in flipping out over it.
Miraculously, amidst all the shards of glass, the mirror itself (the bad luck part) wasn’t cracked, although the glass frame around it was. An hour later, I was still vacuuming up glass crumbs that had managed to scatter all the way to the kitchen. I picked up the phone to call my mom to tell her what had happened, but then I hesitated. I was worried my dad would answer. I pictured his face falling instantly, the glow from last night vanished, and I didn’t have the heart. I decided to keep it to myself (and this blog, which my dad doesn’t read). When given the choice between breaking a mirror, and breaking my father’s sense of self worth, I’d choose the former any day.
Love that you went back to bed. Hard to argue with the “head in the sand – will deal with it manana” approach!
Keep up the great work.
Nice….the mirror didn’t break, all is good!
thanks, from a dad.