BANSHEE (to her Pop-Pop, my dad): That’s a nice compost pile, Pop-Pop.
Yes, I am The Banshee. I am 6. I understand the concept of compost. Thank you.
chips
I am at my brother’s house, sitting at the table with Baby Banshee. We’re eating a healthy lunch of potato chips and potato chips. I peer into the bowl, looking, as I always do, for a folded chip. It’s a little thing I do to keep me from eating all the chips: I can only eat the folded chips, you see. Actually, I’ve done such a good number on myself with this one that I now think they taste better, those folded-over chips.
I pull one out. Baby Bansee, 2 1/2 now, watches me with those huge every-color eyes.
“Look, Banshee. It’s folded. Tee Tee can only eat the folded ones.”
I shove it in my mouth, crunching loudly.
“Mmmmm ….. they taste the best.”
She smiles, then glances down into the bowl, grabs a chip, and waves it at me.
It’s a folded chip.
“Hey! Good job, Banshee! A Tee Tee chip!”
She holds her chubby fist out as if to give me, Tee Tee, the folded Tee Tee chip.
“For me?” I say, reaching for it.
At the last second she snatches her hand away, giggles, and shoves the folded chip into her mouth with every available little finger.
Stinker!
Next, an impromptu game of “Can Tee Tee Eat This?” commences over the red plastic bowl of chips. I pull out a flat chip.
“Banshee, can I eat this one?”
“No, Tee Tee.”
I offer it to her.
“Would you like it?”
“Noo.”
I pull out a folded chip.
“What about this one? Can Tee Tee eat this one?”
“Yesh. Issa Tee Tee chip.”
“Should I eat it?”
“No.”
Hm.
“Soo … do you want it, Banshee?”
“Yesh.”
She reaches her pudgy hand towards me and I succumb, give up the folded chip, because — well, because she’s Baby Banshee, 25 pounds of roly-poly voodoo that render me helpless.
I pull out another flat chip.
“Can I eat this one, Banshee?”
“No. Nodda Tee Tee chip.”
“Do you want this one, Banshee?”
“Noo.”
“Why not?”
“Is nodda Tee Tee chip.”
This is how it goes for several minutes. I want the Tee Tee chips. Banshee wants the Tee Tee chips.
Guess who got them all?
Later that week, my sister-in-law calls to tell me that whenever they eat chips now, Baby Banshee scans the bowl, looking only for the Tee Tee chips.
What this all means for her future, I have no idea.
bad (netflix) romance
So my parents’ disappointed love affair with the cinemah continues apace and apparently it’s all my fault for setting those crazy kids up.
I now get regular deflated updates on the status of their Netflix relationship. Basically, it would seem they’re dating for lack of anything better to do, going out with the guy you go out with just to have something to do on Saturday night. I mean, my dad has mastered tie-dye and stained glass and woodturning and rock stacking and indignant letter writing, eh, might as well move on to movie watching. My mom has mastered the art of being sick for over a quarter century, so it’s only a matter of time before a movie stumbles across her line of sight to make her forget she’s “sick” for approximately 93 minutes, even though I’m still crossing my fingers for that magic movie. Uhm, I think it’s called “The Afterlife.”
Turns out, my parents watched “On the Waterfront” and liked it, although Mom had to insist that Brando was not good-looking. Not her type. No way. Never.
“Tracey, he was NOT good-looking.”
Okay, Mom, whatever. Calm down. He was gross. Fine. You’re right.
Dad said, “We’re gonna watch ‘A Streetcar Named Desire’ next. Whaddya think?”
WhaddyI think? Uhm ….. uh ……. I think they should see it, and I think they will hate it. HATE it. HAAAAATE it.
I performed a verbal pirouette around THAT one, leaving it open, giving fair warning. I mean, they’re still bitter and ramped up about Citizen Kane and somehow these things all come back on my head. If I recommend a movie they hated, I have “gone against the family” and it’s all my fault and how oh how could I do that to them?
Recently, I told Dad to put a bunch of Hitchcock in his queue and he did.
So they watched Rear Window. And they did not like Rear Window.
Last week, we were at their house. Dad had printed out his queue and handed it to me to peruse. The two of them started in on poor Rear Window.
“I did not like Rear Window,” said Mom.
“Yeah. I don’t like Hitchcock,” said Dad.
“Okay,” said I.
“Well, it wasn’t suspenseful at ALL,” said Dad.
“YEAH,” agreed Mom.
“Okay,” said I.
They glared some blame at me.
“And what was Jimmy Stewart’s problem??” said Mom.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he was a grouch!”
“I think that was just …. who his character was in that movie, Mom.”
“AND he didn’t want to marry Grace Kelly,” she continued.
“YEAH,” said Dad.
“Who doesn’t want to marry GRACE KELLY??”
Mom was out of her mind with indignation.
“I dunno. Do YOU want to marry Grace Kelly?”
I am a jerk.
“Tracey, come on.”
She glared at me some more. I think I’m the sole reason her face does that.
“Okay. Well, maybe don’t watch anymore Hitchcock, I guess.”
“Yeah. I like to be uplifted when I watch a movie,” said Dad.
You have to understand. My dad is Walter Mitty. He lives in his own little world and it’s not the world the rest of us live in. It’s nice where he is. It’s Disney, uncomplicated and sunny all the time. Even with mom’s “illness,” he lives in this place. Before she got sick, it was more of a vacation place he visited once in a while, but now he’s bought some land, built himself a cabin, probably stacked some rocks, and moved there on a permanent basis. It’s nice where he is, you see. There are no storms on his horizon.
So I began to rattle off a bunch of sports movies that I think he’d find “uplifting.” The Rookie. Hoosiers. Remember the Titans.
Then I mentioned The Mission and described it to them. It’s a bit of a litmus test. I threw that out there knowing there’s a good chance they won’t like it. I think it’s uplifting, in its own way, but maybe not in the way Dad means. He wants happy endings, not sacrificial endings. Still, if they don’t like The Mission, I am adopted. (I can hear it now. “Tracey, I didn’t like Robert DeNiro in that movie.” “He was a bad guy.” “People were naked.”)
Dad got out a pen and dutifully wrote all my suggestions down. Mom commented randomly.
“I don’t like that George Clooney.”
“Oh?”
“He’s in some new movie called The American.'”
“Uh-huh. Uhm, what’s wrong with that?”
“Well, he is NOT an American!”
See what I deal with?
“Uhm ….. wha …..”
“He doesn’t behave like an American.”
I don’t want to have this conversation.
“Okay.”
“I don’t like the way he behaves.”
“Okay.”
“Or that Glenn Close either.”
What has she done lately to make ANYONE mad? Besides, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even know who Glenn Close is.
I glanced down at the queue and said, “Well, if she bugs you that much, you should take Paradise Road off the queue. She’s in it.”
“Ohh, Tracey. That won’t make a difference. I can still WATCH a movie she’s in.”
“Uh-huh. We’ll see.”
She rolled her eyes at me.
Dad put a quiet question mark next to Paradise Road.
telling
My sister and Piper, having a frozen yogurt date.
SIS: Pipey, you know Dad had this thing growing in his body, right?
PIPER: Yeah.
SIS: And he had that surgery where the doctor took it all out.
PIPER: Yeah.
SIS: Well, the doctor wants to make sure there’s none of it left anywhere in his body.
PIPER: Okay.
SIS: So ….. Daddy needs to have these treatments to make sure it’s all gone.
PIPER: Oh, okay.
SIS: With these treatments, though, it will look like Daddy’s getting sicker — for a little while.
PIPER (after a pause): Okay.
SIS: I just wanted you to know that Daddy might look sicker, but he has to get a little sicker so he can get completely better, okay?
PIPER: Okay, Mommy.
SIS: Okay.
PIPER: It’s okay, Mommy.
Brave girls both.
prayers
I know I’ve been a bit sporadic here lately. It’s been a rough summer so far.
I’m asking you guys to please pray for my BIL tomorrow and whenever it crosses your mind for the next 7 weeks. He starts radiation in the morning. As I think I mentioned in another post, radiation to any part of the head can be particularly brutal and debilitating, with potential permanent side effects. Loss of teeth, hair, sense of taste, swallowing issues, eating issues. It’s gnarly. I ain’t gonna lie. Even with radiation, the prognosis for 5-year survival is pretty bleak.
We were up there this weekend and I had a long conversation with my BIL. Well, as much as he’s able to talk with his tongue in so much pain. It’s starting to hit him how serious it is. Denial is wearing off and the newfound reality is harsh.
So … please pray if you think of it. Everyone is weary and shell-shocked and those of us who are less weary and shell-shocked are trying to keep everyone else together.
Sorry for the ramble. Thank you all for sticking with me, even when I’m a crankypants and a downerpants.
You are cherished friends.
weekend snippets
MB to me:
“You’re like a bucket of popcorn shrimp! You just keep making me happy!”
*********
Describing an old Beanhouse customer we saw on the boulevard:
“Ugh. He was the grumpiest man alive. Like he was made of onions or something.”
**********
Baby Banshee, wondering where her cousin, Younger Nephew, is:
“Tee Tee, where dat guy dat goes wid da doggie?”
**********
Submitting to “The Hypnosis Game” as played by The Banshee and Piper.
BANSHEE: Okay, Tee Tee. Watch this necklace.
TEE TEE: Okay.
BANSHEE: You’re getting sleepy, okay?
TEE TEE: Uhm, sure.
BANSHEE: Well, you ARE getting sleepy, Tee Tee!
TEE TEE: Yes, ma’am.
PIPER: When I clap my hands, you will wake up and you will be our servant.
TEE TEE: That’s a bummer.
BANSHEE: Tee Tee! You’re asleep!
TEE TEE: Yes, ma’am.
BANSHEE: And …… you won’t be our servant, you’ll be our …… BEAUTIFUL LADY!!
TEE TEE: Nice save, Banshee.
Piper claps her hands.
BANSHEE: Hellooo, BEAUTIFUL LADY!!
TEE TEE: What’s up?
BANSHEE: Now go get us some cake!
baby banshee wants to know
We went up to my brother’s again the week after The Banshee and I completed this groundbreaking work of art.
As we arrived, with greeting and hugs all around, Baby Banshee — all of 2 1/2 — stood off to the side, silently watching me with wide eyes. She was smiling, but she was quiet, a little more shy than usual. She looked at my feet. Then at my face. At my feet, at my face. Then she seemed to reach some moment of inner resolve because she suddenly marched up to me, pointed at my feet, and demanded, “Tee Tee, do you still have that face on your foot?”
Ohhh. I get it now.
I am equal parts thrilled and horrified at the thought that Tee Tee might still have a picture on her foot. I don’t know what to do. I want to know, but, on the other hand, I don’t want to know. I am torn. If I ask, then I’ll know and that might be bad. If I don’t ask, then I won’t know and that might be worse. Do I ask? Do I not ask? Ask? Not ask? Okay. I can’t stand it. I NEED to know.
“Oh! Sweetie, no, not anymore. It washed off in the shower.”
“Reawwy?” Her face fell a bit.
“Yeah. But you know what? It did take a couple of days for it to fade all the way.”
“Reawwy?” She brightened.
“Yep. Really.”
She just smiled her quiet little smile and toddled off to find a game for us to play.
movie talk or something
MB and I were out at my parents’ on Sunday, checking on Piper, giving them an in-person update about their son-in-law’s surgery and progress. We’d just gotten home from my sister’s a few hours earlier and MB kept insisting, “You need to sleep. You need to sleep,” but it wasn’t gonna happen. I knew it. I was entering that weird energy phase that happens when you’re beyond exhaustion and morphing into a manic freak. I make dubious decisions in this state of mind. Oh, for instance, “Let’s go out to my parents’!” MB just rolled his eyes and shook his head and drove the car. Piper was ecstatic to see us and basically threw her uncle into the pool with her which meant I could talk privately with mom and dad. I walked them through everything with their son-in-law and they were impassive, which is how they typically respond to anything emotional. It’s frustrating. There are key areas — key areas — where I am not like them in any way, shape, or form, where there is a complete disconnect between us.
So when the conversation got too intense, Dad quickly changed the subject to his Netflix queue and the movies they’ve seen.
Uhm, okay. Let’s talk about that. This will be almost as frustrating as trying to talk to you about your son-in-law’s cancer, but, okay, let’s talk about your movies.
Mom began.
“I don’t understand why some of these movies are considered classics. I hate them.”
“Really? Well, okay. It’s personal taste, that’s for sure.”
“Well, like Breakfast at Tiffany’s. What a bore. There was no plot.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Dad joined in.
“And I didn’t like Audrey Hepburn in that.”
“Okay.”
Mom again.
“Yeah. She was totally vapid. All she did was smoke and have parties.”
(Translation: Her fictional character is clearly going to hell.)
“Hmm,” I said, deciding making noncommittal noises would be best in this situation.
They switched movies. Dad spoke.
“Then we watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
Oooh. Screenplay by my boyfriend William Goldman.
“Another movie with NO PLOT,” my mom said in disgust.
Ohh, no. Don’t say it. Don’t do it. Do NOT say, “Uh, William Goldman won an Academy Award for that script.” Just don’t say it, okay, dummy?
I didn’t, but it was killing me. Killing me.
“I didn’t like Robert Redford,” one of them said.
“I thought that song was stupid,” the other one said.
“I did like Paul Newman,” one of them said.
“But I didn’t like the ending,” the other one said.
“We just got Blazing Saddles in the mail. Do you think we’ll like that?” Dad asked.
I looked at them both.
“No,” I said and changed the subject back to cancer.
Because it was actually less annoying.
Curse you and your ease, Netflix!
where my family becomes a “hallmark hall of fame presentation”
Honestly, we are grossing me out a little bit. Can I say that?
I mean, we are now officially precious and I don’t know how to deal with it now that I’m part of The Precious Family. You know how you envision certain things playing out in your life? You think things like, “I will be a teacher.” “I will be a doctor.” “I will be an Olympic curler.” Stuff like that, right? Well, you know, I have to tell you that I have never once thought to myself “I will become precious.” Nope. Not once. I never ever saw that as my destiny. But it’s sneaking up on me, worming its way into my blood like a virus. I’m taking echinacea to build up my immunity, but it ain’t helping.
Now this current precious trend is not coming from my parents. No, they’re not demonstrative AT ALL. My mom is never precious and my dad is mostly inadvertently precious. It’s these damn precious kids tugging at your heart strings and making you cry and making you think you’re living in The Sound of Music and maudlin crap like that. I mean, one thing we all know about me is that I am NOT precious. We know this, right? I am a crankypants. I AM A CRANKYPANTS AND I WEAR MY CRANKYPANTS BADGE WITH PRIDE!!
But now, sheesh. I’m living in a Strawberry Shortcake world and it’s precious and it’s making me confused about my identity, okay? If I become precious, I don’t know what I’ll DO.
So coming up next: “The Precious Family — a Hallmark Hall of Fame Presentation.”
Do sit down.
~ A few days before BIL’s surgery, my sister heard Elder Nephew on the phone, the tail end of his conversation. He was going out of town on a pre-planned church trip, so he wasn’t going to be home for his dad’s surgery.
“Who was that?” My sister asked when he hung up.
“Well, I was calling the church.”
“You were?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What for?”
“I told them I was going to be out of town, so I needed the deacons to come check on my family.”
“Really?”
“Well, yeah. I told them I won’t be here to take care of my family, and that’s what deacons are supposed to do, right?”
You’re right, kid, but damn. Kleenex to Room 212, STAT!!
~ Piper wrote her dad a pre-surgery note about how much she loves him. She drew a sad bunny face.
~ At one point post-surgery, I came home to check on Younger Nephew, the only kid home. Sister said, “Yeah. Please make sure he’s alive.” I told him about his dad — in a roundabout, as-needed way. Then I said, “You know, it might be nice if you wrote your dad a note or something.” Again, he’s monosyllabic these days. He talks to me because we’ve always had a ruthlessly teasing relationship on both sides and that continues apace, but emotional stuff …. uhm, no. Not so much right now.
He responded with a noncommittal shrug and I just figured he wouldn’t do it — that it was too much for him or something. A while later, though, as I was about to head back to the hospital, he said, “Here, Aunt Tracey. Take him this Spider Man bobble head doll.”
I looked at him, looked down at the bobble head doll now in my hands, and furrowed my brow in confusion.
“Well, when I was in the hospital for my tonsils when I was 4, he brought me a Spider Man doll because I was really scared.” He paused for a second, seemed embarrassed. “Well, I just want him to have this.”
Ow, my eyes hurt. It has to be the red eye of Sauron again, right?
Then he handed me a folded piece of paper with a rather long note on it. I promised him I wouldn’t read it and he didn’t believe me even though I didn’t read it. I really didn’t. Of course, my sister read it aloud to her husband at the hospital, so I heard the whole durned thing. (Sorry, kid, but I DID keep my promise.) He relayed the Spider Man story to his dad and told him how much he loved him and how proud he was that he was his dad and how Spider Man would watch out for him.
Again with the stinging in the eyes. Dark side of the moon, my lily white bottom.
~ Elder Nephew was given a Mac Book for high school graduation. Since he was going to be out of town for his dad’s surgery, he used it to record himself singing and playing a song for a pre-surgery DVD for his dad. My BIL watched it alone first and then showed it to my sister, Younger Nephew, and me the night before surgery. We gathered at the kitchen table all hunched around BIL’s laptop and watched it.
I’m telling you, we are officially precious and I’m at my wit’s end about it. Seriously.
Elder Nephew sang the song “Life of a Salesman” by Yellowcard for his dad. It’s a kind of punk rock song thanking a dad for being a good dad. It ends with the line, “Thank you for my life, Dad.”
So Elder Nephew sang the song on his video, a little slower than the original, and the screen faded to black for a few seconds. Then a graphic came up that read “Thank you for my life, Dad.”
A few more seconds of black, then my sister’s voice from years ago, just her voice saying, “Well, J, right now, you like nothing better than imitating your daddy. You copy the way he holds his spoon and fork and you like to eat like him, too. You try to do everything the same as he does.”
You see, since her kids were little, my sister has made regular audio recordings of their lives, what they’re like at a given age, what they like to do, funny things they’ve done or said. She’s saved them all and she gave Elder Nephew his mini cassettes for his graduation. Obviously, he’d listened to them.
My sister’s voice continued, just her voice from the black screen:
“You know, J, you’re so lucky to have a daddy like you do. He plays with you all the time. He’s funny and loves to be with you and talk to you more than anything. He just loves you so much. You are everything to him.”
And at that, my sister, who has not once cried since the diagnosis came down, dropped her head to the table and burst into sobs. Then I burst into sobs. Then my brother-in-law burst into sobs. Younger Nephew, standing at the kitchen counter right then, watched as his mom and his dad and his aunt burst into these massive Hallmark sobs and, well, I’m sure he thought for a second that we were all nutso insane, but suddenly he just jumped across that room and grabbed his mom from behind in a huge bear hug. The room was still for a very long time, the only sound the sound of sniffles. I held onto BIL. Younger Nephew held onto his mother.
And that’s all we did. That’s all we did.
See? What did I tell you?
A “Hallmark Hall of Fame Presentation.”
I am beside myself about it.
Here is a video of the song EN sang. Lyrics below. I will always love this song now, but, frankly, I do worry that it will be part of my insidious transformation from crankypants to preciouspants.
What’s a dad for dad?
Tell me why I’m here dad
Whisper in my ear that I’m growing up to be a better man, dad
Everything is fine dad
Proud that you are mine dad
Cause I know I’m growing up to be a better man
Father I will always be
That same boy that stood by the sea
And watched you tower over me
Now I’m older I wanna be the same as you
What’s a dad for dad?
Taught me how to stand, dad
Took me by the hand and you showed me how to be a bigger man, dad
Listen when you talk, dad
Follow where you walk, dad
And you know that I will always do the best I can
I can
When I am a dad, dad ~(when i am a dad, dad)~
I’m gonna be a good dad ~(i’m gonna be a good dad)~
Did the best you could, dad ~(did the best you could, dad)~
Always understood, dad ~(always understood, dad)~
Taught me what was right, dad ~(taught me what was right, dad)~
Opened up my eyes, dad ~(opened up my eyes, dad)~
Glad to call you my dad ~(Glad to call you my dad)~
Thank you for my life dad
younger nephew
Younger Nephew (C) is almost 16. He’s gone around the dark side of the moon a bit because, well, he’s almost 16. He’s withdrawn, monosyllabic, morose. Your basic teenage boy. Still, my sister has been worried about him, worried that Houston will not be able to bring him back from the dark side of the moon. I try to tell her, “He’ll come back. Elder Nephew came back. He’ll be back. It’s okay. It’s okay.” But she still worries. More so now.
When my sister and BIL sat the boys down last week and told them the grim diagnosis, Elder Nephew was visibly shaken. Younger Nephew was stoic and left the room in silence. About a half hour later, he knocked on their bedroom door. He sat on the edge of the bed with them.
“With everything that’s happening, I think I should quit football.”
Younger Nephew, who will only be a sophomore, was personally recruited by the high school football coach to play next year. He also plays basketball, which is kind of a weird combo, I guess, but he’s just a really good athlete. This summer is consumed with workouts and camps and practices and whatever really good high school athletes do with their summers. He loves football. Loves it.
But he continued.
“I mean, Brother is going away to college in the fall and someone needs to be around to take Piper where she needs to go and, besides, football is pretty expensive, so I just think I should quit.”
My sister and BIL protested vigorously, but Younger Nephew interrupted. He IS going through a stubborn phase. Or, well, maybe it’s not a phase.
“But I’m the one who’s playing, so I think I should decide if I want to play or not.”
My BIL spoke. There’s a reason why the man is a shrink.
“Well, C, if you want to quit because you don’t like it and don’t want to play, then, yes, I’d say it’s your decision. BUT if you want to quit because you think it will help me and your mom right now, then, no, it’s our decision.”
Younger Nephew was silent.
“Look, C, I want my life to go on as normally as possible. I like seeing my boys play sports. It makes me happy. And you love it. So I don’t want you to quit, okay?”
Younger Nephew responded slowly.
“Okaay.”
They both hugged him and thanked him and teared up a bit and watched as their boy — the one who’s gone around the dark side of the moon, you know — walked back to his room.
Oh, he’s coming back.
He never really left.
Such a kid. Such a kid.