Lessson learned?

Foot in a cast again, beer on the Italian tiled step he paid a Cuban immigrant to lay because he is unable to do it himself.  The brightness of the room’s day burst in from the multiple windows.  His wife is in the kitchen preparing for supper.  His son, all of 10 months, orange hair, is reaching for the electrical outlet.  The whirlwind that culminates the last part of the work day is finally subsiding.  Both parents are home and the burden of child care no longer has fallen on just mom.  The sigh of relief to be alone and concentrating on something more easy like getting dinner fixed can begin.  His finger is making a bee line for it.  The normal banter is occurring over the 20 feet of space that separates husband and wife.  He stops, looks up and hears the words that he will most likely hear at least ten thousand times between now and the time he dies, if he’s lucky.  There will be variations of course, “ah-eh-ah, don’t do that, maybe, not right now, wait, I have to think about it, we don’t have the money, it costs too much”

His hand falls to his round legs, and he propels himself onto his red, tender knees.  Looking up at his father again, looking away, finger again making a motion to touch the outlet.

The no comes at him a little firmer this time.  15 years ago, he would have smacked his hand.  After all, the pain of being shocked is way worse than the pain of being smacked.  He will remember it the next time.  But not today, he knows better.  His other children the victim of the hard lesson he has taught himself.  Irreparable damage he hopes to be pushed down in the chasm of other painful memories he has created and were similarly created by his father and so on and so on.

He smiles back and the love, the true feeling of love engulfs his chest and lungs.  His beautiful baby boy, innocent and cute as all hell, sits there a little longer and ponders whatever it is that a 10 month old can ponder at 6pm in the evening.  He sits there looking at him.  He’s growing so fast.  The daycare workers say he is sensitive.  To him all he hears is that he wants his mommy or daddy.  That he just wants to be home.  His heart swells again this time though it pumps deep throbbing pumps of pain and hurt.  The emotional pain of being completely powerless in a situation and not being able to affect another human being you have brought into this world only to do something so horrible as leave alone in an unforgiving, relentless, faux-Christian society that would rather kill and mame other humans to advance their ideologies.  A hurt that he can’t raise his son in the way that they tell you, you should on Television.  They have been pumping this nuclear family bullshit into his head for the better part of 35 years.  Propagandizing into his subconscious what it is that he should be and how it should be.  How the lucky are able to stay at home.

Pumping him full of the illusive and unattainable cardboard household that is portayed as the real heroes in Americana folk lore.  He knows all too well the heroes they create; the ones that can “make it work” by cutting coupons.  The soccer mom that recently was trotted out on CNN that built a bicycle for her whole entire family to peddle while eating dinner.  The bike creates wind power that powers their entire home. It has a generator on it that stores their electric.  They sell their electric to local supermarkets and swap the energy for produce and dairy products they are fortunate enough to have time to create in their barn raised by Amish people 240 years ago after the great happening that occurred that was really awful and created amazing self awareness.   They also raise live stock and buy and sell farm animals that the local community also helps raise.

The father, he is an engineer working on solving the current carbon problem that has gripped their community.  Ever since the old mill shut down Pa has been working feverishly to reclaim his position in society and knows that with hard work he can make it.  After all, that’s what America is all about gosh darnit (swinging his arm in the manner that emphasizes his point). Pa, well he works from home in overalls of course, faded blue and white around the knees that show the dedication he has to his craft of course.  In his basement he has a plant that absorbs the carbon emissions from his children and recycles them into a combustible material that he sells to NASA to make ends meet.  They don’t go out to dinner.  They don’t believe in pesticides.  They pray at dinner and their children aren’t riddled with ADD.  Perfect.  American.  White.

His son reaches for the socket one last time.  He thunders down a NO onto him.  He hasn’t bellowed one of these yet at his son and it shows.  The lion has never roared directly at him.  The tile in the foyer rifles back the burst at his little ears.  The thunder echoes in between his little ear canal and down to his stomach.  He looks up at his father.  Why?  Why did you just yell at me?  Why did you make me hurt?  It happens all in slow-painful-heart wrenching-motion.  He looks up and says it with his eyes, his mouth and every ounce of his 22lb body.  It pours out of him fast.  It unfolds like the toy that comes to life after it has absorbed an ounce of water.  His bottom lip drips and forms that half square that allows his saliva to drip from his cherub face and onto the bend of his milky white leg.  The saliva that is a constant reminder of his teething doesn’t stop as he wails.  The saliva, which is a constant reminder of his infancy on this planet, hangs from his face.  He continues to look up to his own flesh and blood in a mystified, paralyzed fear that feels like an hour.  Time has slowed and become very relative all of a sudden.  The thunder is still there echoing around the room bouncing off the hard, cold surface.  The light seems dimmer than it was a half a second ago and the weather seems to have shifted.  Everything has changed for the worse now.  His head falls down like a dogs tail between its’ legs.  He is crying now and looking up at his father still wondering why he had to do that.  Why? He crawls away with his tiny 3 inch hands patting the tile, knees sliding behind him.  Huffing for air, tears falling from both eyes, slobbering, turning red, he gets about three feet away and looks back.  They aren’t daggers of anger shooting back at his father.  They are daggers of Why.  Why’s coming at his father in rapid fire.  50mm burst why, why, why, why arrows penetrating his heart, his head, his eyes.  He wants to look away at the carnage he has caused.  The insufferable, huffing, bawling and disappointment is beyond anything his father thought could possibly happen with a simple No.  His head down again he starts to crawl to mommy.  The patting on the floor more like a slap on his face.  Crawling away the slaps hurt as he gets farther and farther away from the source of the pain.  The why bullets are flying and the arrows are sticking out of him like an Indians victim in the forest hundreds of years ago.  He is somewhat disoriented from the fear and the hurt of having been yelled at thus his path to the kitchen is not direct.

His heart is being pierced with each nano-second that elapses now.   It is torture having to watch this display of complete fear.  What has he done?  Did he really used to do this with his other children?  Why?  The mind is an unbelievable processor of memories, bad memories.  Where do these come from? I thought these were put in the trash bin and deleted.   The speed and veracity with which all the memories come rushing out of his mind are unreal.  The emotion pours over him.

The one constant memory he can’t seem to stuff away far enough from his memory rushes back to him faster than the breath of a man resuscitated from a near drowning.  Being yelled at for spilling the milk.  Being so afraid to spill the milk that he spills the milk anyway.  The yelling that would ensue from yes, literally spilt milk.  It was nothing to make jokes about.  The people that would say, “Don’t cry over spilt milk” have never had the unleashing of a tired, depressed, over worked middle aged father going through the final years of a marriage that should have never happened.  The yelling one endures from the most mundane unreal things would marvel anyone that thought they had it bad as a kid.  The yelling is what he remembers. The, “ I will never do that to my children” mantra, never seems to become a reality for some reason.  Bad habits are hard to break.  The hair trigger anger is still there.   Though somewhat mitigated with years and self-therapy.  He holds out his hands to say, “Come here.”  To express his condolences.  To say he is sorry.  He crawls back, pitifully.  Slap, slap, slap, huff, huff, huff.  He gets to his feet, crawls up his leg.  Arms raised up, still huffing. The eyes look right at him. They have “why did you do that?” written all over them in big bold Arial font.  They both look away from each other but for different reasons.

It’s ok he says, you just can’t do that buddy.  That will really hurt you ok?  I’m sorry I yelled at you.  I know it was wrong but I was afraid.   I won’t do it again.