Dichotomy

I talk to my dad every once in a while. Sometimes, once or twice a week, other times, not for months in between. Sometimes, it's easy; sometimes it's hard. I miss him, you know? I miss the guy I remember growing up with, the guy who taught me to throw a football, started tickle fights, took me with him to his work in the summer. Those are the times it's easy, the times I call often. And sometimes? Sometimes, I'm so mad at him, I can't breathe. I want to shout at him, or shake him, or smack him upside the head and ask how he could be so blind, so stupid, so complacent! But I don't do any of these things--besides, it would have to be a hell of a smack, considering he lives about 1400 miles away. I remind myself that 1) he made his choice, and for him, my mother will always, always, always come first; and 2) he's taking baby steps. It's better than nothing, the small bits of defiance, and stepping away from Larry's control, well, it takes time to do something like that, and it's not like it's a surprise that Dad's passive. He's been that way as long as I can remember. But those are the hard times, the times when months pass between calls. It's especially hard, now that Anthony and I are talking more about babies and such. The dichotomy is I'd like my (potential) children to know their grandfather, but I don't know if I want them to know him like this. I want them to know him like he was.

I'm even more conflicted when it comes to thinking about my mom. I mean, she doesn't even want to talk to me, or at least, she's not willing to defy Larry to do it. She certainly endorsed sending back my letter, since it was her handwriting that said "return to sender". So I have even more reason to be angry with her. It seems like the more involved my mom got with Larry, the more she pushed the "traditional" woman's role for me... which... what the hell, mom? I mean, really? And at the same time... what? I don't know, exactly. I mean, it's stupid, but... I was experimenting, making up a soup recipe, and I put in too much pepper. I couldn't think what to do to rescue a soup with too much pepper, I mean, I know what to do if there's too much salt, but pepper? Even after all these years of her not talking to me, the first thing that popped into my head was, "Better call mom, she'll know." And then I wanted to cry. It's stupid, I mean... except, not really, because the underlying issue is that I want her in my everyday life, even with all the dumbass choices she's made, and I can't have that. I can't just call and ask her what she'd do to rescue an over-peppered soup, and what if it was something big? Like me struggling with depression? Or fear that I may not be able to have kids? Or that I'll be a horrible parent? But, of course, that would just turn into an ugly, nasty, messy fight, because I wouldn't even these doubts if it weren't for everything that happened. I mean, sure, I'm sure I'd be wondering if everything would work out ok, and thinking about whether or not I'm actually able/ready/willing to be responsible for someone else's life--eep!--but, I seriously doubt I'd have this bone-deep fear of screwing it all up so badly, of passing on this... sludge to another generation.

It's just, awkward. And difficult. And it's a dichotomy that I don't really know how to resolve. Some part of me keeps hoping for the magic wand/fairy godmother solution. But the fact of the matter is, that as long as Larry is in the picture, there is no solution.