Someday we'll look back at this and laugh

Saturday was Dora's fifth birthday.

We interrupt this post as the author mourns the rapid passing of time. Please, look away from your monitor and give Chris a brief moment to compose himself. Thank you.

She wanted to celebrate at Ruffner Mountain Nature Center with a few of her friends so we rented the pavilion and made a day of it. One minute she was playing with Polly Pockets and Barbie dolls and the next minute she was petting an eight-foot rat snake. That's my Dora.

Just as all the animal fun was getting under way, some semi-expected guests showed up. My parents. That's right, all the way from northwest Alabama, Mr. and Mrs. DePaul. I say semi-expected because, though we had mailed them an invitation and though it was their only granddaughter's fifth birthday, we didn't really expect them to come. Let me explain.

My mother hasn't seen or spoken to her mother (previously introduced to you as Mama Bennett, who is slowly dying out west) or her sisters (also previously introduced to you as Aunts Ess and Bee) in over fifteen years. To say the matter is complicated is to understate it exponentially. You have your own families to fret over without being burdened with the details of mine, but please appreciate the enormous drain this has been on my life as I've tried to juggle relationships with all sides while trying to avoid gossip and the supply of ordnance for their self-inflicted wounds of regrets, frustrations, and hopelessness on one side (out west) and utter isolation, disregard, and unknowing on the other (my mother).

While I was out west visiting Mama Bennett in July, Zelda wrote Mrs. DePaul a letter. Aunts Ess and Bee codependently wanted to shield me from having to relay news of Mama Bennett's demise to my mother, so one of them called and left a message on her answering machine. Knowing this, Zelda tried to assure Mrs. DePaul that she understood her grief, and how we and the kids were handling it, and how we were there for her in what must be a difficult, guilt-ridden, remorseful, sobering time. The letter, which I was unaware of but read later, was touching. Mrs. DePaul's response?


[insert sound of crickets chirping]


Nothing.

We called. Left messages on the answering machine. Had the kids leave messages on the answering machine. Zilch.

But at Dora's insistence, Zelda mailed an invitation to the party. And they came. And I felt that my passive-aggressive "since you won't return my phone calls the next move is up to you" tack had paid dividends. That is, up until Mrs. DePaul stiff-armed Zelda as she moved in for a hug. In front of my kids. And Dora's friends. And their parents.

Lovett was upset. He, being thirteen, has been told everything I know about this rift between his grandparents and great-grandparents. And he was miffed that his mother had been so blatantly dissed. I didn't learn until later in the evening how bad it actually had been. Zelda made multiple attempts to get Mrs. DePaul to sit down and talk but was told in no uncertain terms that a climatological change of arctic proportions in the nether regions would have to occur first.

And I, as usual, am in the middle. Between my mother and her mother. Between my mother and her sisters. Between my wife and my mother. Between my kids and their grandmother. Between brokenness and repair. Between heaven and hell.

Happy birthday, Dora. Forgive me for not building a thicker hedge around you. Be patient with me as I try to extract myself from the poor coping skills of my tribe of origin so that I can raise you better. Hold on to your innocence as long as you can. Maybe someday, you will understand all this.

Maybe someday, I will too.