Mrs. Goodcookie's Jungle Crackers

Yeah, how wrong are those? They were a snack option on my JetBlue flight this morning. I went with the non-controversial chocolate chip cookies, thank you very much.

My trip to Florida to see the fam. Well, how does one begin. Upon my arrival, my dad picked me up. We went to PF Chang's for lunch. My dad lit into me. I started crying. He paid the bill. Drove me a silent thirty-five minutes to my brother's home. Stayed for about 10 minutes. "i'll tell Mr. Brown you send your best."

"Well, I'm sure I'll see him at some point."

Silence from my dad. He didn't try to see me or talk to me for the rest of the weekend. In fact, canceled all plans to see any of us for the duration of my stay. "Tell Katherine to have a good flight," he told my sister.

He does it every time. Just when I think we've moved beyond the headgames (one lack of underwear incident comes to mind), something like this happens. My friends have all seen my dad do this to me.

There is a part of me that believes, truly, that my dad has used his sole-living-parent status as the ultimate trump card in every family dispute. That no matter what, we are the children, he is THE PARENT. And there is a part of me that truly believes we will all breathe a collective sigh of relief when he passes. There, let me be the first one to put it out there. In writing. In the cosmos. There is some part of me that believes that once my father is dead, I will somehow be free. Of his expectations, of his manipulation, of wanting/needing/demanding his approval.

There is a survival instinct inside of me that is hopeful. But that same instinct has kept me in romantic relationships past their expiration dates. If my dad and I do bring out the worst in each other, why pursue a relationship?

When I lived in London for six months, my dad told me I was no longer his daughter. When I came home from London briefly for my grandmother's funeral, my dad told me I was a humiliation, an embarrassment to him. When he caught me sans underwear a couple years ago, he accused me of prostituting myself on the streets of New York City and said that I would not be welcome at the Thanksgiving table. When I first started seeing a therapist when I was 13, both of my parents asked me not to tell my siblings, it would be our secret. I often wondered if either of them drew the line between their near-separation and the cutting that took place shortly after.

And yes, I hold my dad responsible for my mom's death. I hold my mom responsible for her death as well but she's not here. It's like being angry at a vapor. It's already won. And I hold my dad responsible for the sadnesses of my childhood. Of the screaming matches I witnessed from the top of the stairs: my dad, red-faced and scary, my mom's hushed replies, not quite audible. For the time he pushed my sister. For the time he threw the chubby family shih tzu on my mom's bad arm from the front seat of the chevy caprice. For the time he punched me because I said the word shit after a particularly ineffective family therapy visit.

It's almost like I'm looking for some sort of permission. And I don't know from who. Someone who will say: "Yes, Kath, as much as you love your dad and as gruffly kind a man as he can be, a relationship with him may not be in your best interests. You are hereby absolved of this responsibility. Be good to your siblings, your in laws, your nephews, your friends, your co-workers, your self but on this one thing . . .this very big thing that could change your life and the lives of your children . . . we're letting you off the hook."

Then there's the apartment. When I tried to move out last yearish and exert some element of control over my life, he reined me in even harder. Then he got sick. And I took care of him. I took off work. I exposed myself to the same mold that infected his lungs. I cooked his meals. Walked his dog. Changed his sheets. Did his laundry. Vacuumed his floors and rugs. And even now as he attempts to sell the place where he nearly died last year, it is my duty to get the mail and send it to him. Check the place, make sure it looks okay. That it looks sellable.

My mom always said, until she died that the best days of her life were when she was young and single and living in new york. My sister and I often felt slighted by that, as though the life she currently had was sorely lacking. At some point after I was born, my mom stopped smiling with her mouth open. In life and in pictures. Maybe a closelipped smile was easier to fake.