What's in a Name Part 2

I don’t usually write follow up posts but after a recent conversation , I’m making an exception and writing part II to What’s in a Name. If you haven’t read it, it’s where I discuss the similarities between my own Grandma Jones (my dad’s mother) and my mother as a Grandma Jones to her only grandchild. I couldn’t decide if “What’s in a Name Part II” or “Get a Load of this Shit” was a better title but decided to go with a part II since it’s a continuation on the same topic. 

For those interested in the TL; DR version:

It’s been over three years since my mother has seen her only grandchild. 

I don’t see that changing any time soon.

I have tried to help plan and even offered to pay for her travel and she still has reasons to not visit. 

I’m done inviting her and trying to make something happen. 

If it’s important to her she’ll do something about it. 

It’s clear that it’s not important to her. 

It’s clear that neither Joni nor I are important to her. 

Her sisters and nieces and their kids (what I call her Real Family) come first and only. 

No one else matters.

After over 2 years we are starting to get back to “normal” and only now starting to dip our toes back into the world. We have taken every precaution. To some it seemed prudent and responsible and to some it seemed extreme. However you look at it we stayed safe and healthy with an immunocompromised person (me) and and up until recently unvaccinated toddler. 

In the two years we’ve been in Michigan I’ve talked to my mother a few different times about coming to see us and each time there was a reason involving her Real Family why she couldn’t. One reason was she had to do the at-home remote learning for my cousin’s youngest because apparently she is the only functional and literate adult of the bunch. Another time she had to drive the other grown ups around because also apparently no one else can drive. 

We have travel plans for later this summer and early fall so I called her and asked if she wanted to come see us and her only grandchild in October. After the usual excuses I offered to pay for her travel and was still met with “No”. The only reason for her continued refusal to visit us is that she just doesn’t want to or care which is a really shitty feeling. There could be some reason that she is not being honest with me about, which is very possible considering our recent history. 

It’s been three years since she has seen her only grandchild and at this rate it may be kindergarten graduation or later before she does and doesn’t seem to care. When I ask her point blank if she cares or even wants to see me or her only grandchild she tearfully says she does but her actions and inaction say otherwise. 

Previously when I spoke with my mother about visiting us I told her she would need to quarantine before coming because she is not vaccinated nor is anyone in her immediate circle. When I explained what quarantining to visit would entail she admitted she wouldn’t be able to because of her obligations to watch other people’s kids and run errands for others. 

Now that our Tiny Human will be fully vaccinated by the time of the proposed visit I explicitly said she wouldn’t need to quarantine before coming.  I didn’t even bring up her getting vaccinated. I know she won’t because of what some people told her or she heard on cable news about vaccines. She claims she spoke to her doctor but I don’t believe her. Her story on various events has changed and evolved over the last few months regarding things that happened or didn’t happen. 

Every time I talk to my mother I ask if anyone there is or was sick and if everyone is ok. Every time I get the same answer, “yes, everyone is fine” which I now know is bullshit. How do I know this? Let me tell you.

In our last conversation my mother told me that she has covid and she gave it to Middle Sister because they live together in a small house behind Youngest Sister’s house. I asked if anyone else had it and only then did she tell me that my cousin, her husband, and their two kids had it in January and she’s sure she told me. 

She didn’t because I would have remembered that because that was my greatest fear that one of my cousin’s kids would give it to my mother. She claims she got it at the dentist but again considering the evolution of stories and events the last few months I don’t believe her. I don’t know where she got it but I don’t believe it was the dentist. Even in Chucklefuck, Indiana I would imagine a dentist office would have some sort of safety protocols but maybe not. She may forget what version of events she told me and tell me the truth someday. Maybe.

Referring back to the TL; DR section at the beginning of this post, the ball is in her court and if the last three years are any indication we won’t be seeing my mother any time soon and while I can’t speak for the Tiny Human I am past the point of caring. It makes me sad and hurt but it’s also par for the course for our relationship the last several years. 

It’s my mother’s loss because my Tiny Human is amazing and deserves better from her Grandma Jones.

A Nearby Playground

This is the story of some random summer Saturday when my dad came to pick me up, late as usual, and had dropped off his second wife and daughter at a nearby playground. When we left and went to pick them up he had dropped them off at my elementary school. He had no idea. He didn’t even know where I went to school. 

That was his level of involvement in my life outside the 24 hours he had to be involved every other weekend and alternating holidays. 

For most of my life my dad lived no closer than four hours away. For about two years he lived in a suburb about an hour away. I don’t remember the exact years but it was somewhere around late elementary school. I remember he moved to Florida in 1989 because the Cubs won the Eastern Division pennant and he called to ask me to buy and mail him a copy of the Chicago Tribune. 

His involvement and interest  in my life were always minimal and rarely went beyond what was required outside the 24 hours he had to be involved every other weekend and alternating holidays. The degree of which only dawned on me as I grew older and was able to process events as I replayed the memories in my head. 

One random summer Saturday he came to pick me up and was late as usual. He had brought his second wife and daughter with him probably because we were going to do something in the city. After the obligatory small talk with my mother we walked to the car. I noticed that there was no one in the car and asked where they were. He said he dropped them off at a playground nearby and we were going to pick them up now. 

He started to drive and we were probably talking or listening to some cassette when we pulled up to the playground at my elementary school and he said this is where he dropped them off. 

I mentioned that this was in fact my school and he said he had no idea. I wasn’t traumatized by going to my school playground on the weekend rather I was a bit hurt, even in the moment, when I realized my dad didn’t know where I went to school. 

The issue was t and isn’t that he didn’t know where my elementary school was it was indicative of his lack of interest in my life outside the day I spent with him every two weeks. 

I don’t remember him ever asking about school or my grades or what I wanted to be when I grew up or anything a “normal” parent would. It was much the same as I mentioned in my last post about my grandparents Jones, he was more like an old friend of my mother’s that I had to hang out with every couple weeks than a parental figure. I haven’t seen him in over 30 years now and don’t know if I’d recognize him if we were standing next to each other. 

As I get older and now that I am a parent myself I am realizing that the best thing I can do in raising my own Tiny Human is the exact opposite of what they did. 

Paying the monthly hosting fees for this site is cheaper than a therapist and I’m finding it incredibly beneficial in working through some things. 

Malcolm in the Middle

I don’t really have much to say about my dad. How can there be much to say about someone that was never really around. Honestly, I don’t even know enough about him to disparage him. He’s just a guy I would see every few months and for a while every other weekend but that’s about it. 

One night, probably 20 years ago when I was living in Chicago I got home from work and my grandma or grandpa said that Malcolm had called and wanted to talk to me and would call back later. It seemed odd that he would call to talk to me out of the blue like this. He had been one of the pastors years ago at the church we went to and had left for a position at a church in Tampa. 

Tampa. 

That was the reason. I guessed that he had somehow run into my dad and was told some sob story about how he had a son who didn’t talk to him and blah blah blah. About an hour later the phone rang and it was Malcolm calling back as promised. After the usual pleasantries that were standard on a call with someone you hadn’t spoken to for years Malcolm’s tone changed and he sounded serious and pastoral. 

I stopped him before he started on a probably rehearsed speech about redemption and forgiveness and reconciliation. I guessed the reason for his call and I was correct. He had met my dad at some local church event in Tampa and was told some sob story about our relationship, which was largely embellished and potentially fabricated. Malcolm paused a beat after I finished speaking and simply said, “oh, that’s different than what I was told. Sorry about that.” 

We talked for about 20 more minutes. Mostly small talk about what we had been up to and the goings on of mutual friends. After the conversation wound down I took the opportunity to end it at a natural lull. 

“Alright, I gotta go, my dinner is getting cold” was my out because who could argue with that. We said our goodbyes and I hung up. I went back downstairs, grabbed my keys and my bag, and said I’d be back. I got in my car and headed to the Caribou Coffee in Oak Park to read and write like I normally did most nights. 

I can’t imagine making up a story about someone to tell a pastor and thinking it would go well. But that’s what happened because when you’re (apparently) disconnected from reality anything can seem like a good idea. 

Now, 20 years later I have no idea what number marriage my dad is on or if he’s still alive. It’s a weird feeling when I think about it - which isn’t that often - to not know if he’s dead or not. Haven’t seen him in 30 years and it’s becoming more evident that my mother is the same type of Grandma Jones to her granddaughter that my dads mother was to me. 

Must be something in the name Grandma Jones. That’s the only thing that makes sense at the moment. I suspect I’ll write more about that later. 

Thank you for reading along as I vent and try to work through and sort out my stuff.