Satisfying

So Satisfying

Tall Kyle moved out yesterday. When he told me a while back that he was leaving to go live in the same town as his daughter Finley, I said to him what I say to all my friends when they tell me they are going away. I am so happy for your new big adventure. I am so sad for me. 

Kyle came to me by way of another roommate I’ll call Eddie. Eddie is a kind and brilliant soul, a talented DJ and electrician. But Eddie failed to mention prior to move-in that he augmented his income by dealing drugs and also that his dog, Elon, was intact, both of which are very much against house policies. Eddie seemed far more distressed at the prospect of cutting off the dog’s nuts than quitting his side hustle. But I held firm. I have a strict rule about dog balls—the only acceptable ones are rubber and to be thrown and fetched. Eddie moved out, but not before the dog and a cow got into it, both of them worse off for the clash of teeth and horns. 

Whatever irritation I had for Eddie as I tended to my wounded cow was greatly mitigated by his gift of introducing me to Kyle. Kyle was 29 when he moved in and Finley was 6. Getting to spend nearly a year with these two has been remarkably healing on many levels.

Even if Kyle had simply been a semi-reasonable human, I would have exalted in his residency. Because, prior to the Eddie Situation, there had been truly terrible roommates. The three people I had been paying to live and work at the ranch during my brief stint in Shitville morphed into insubordinate assholes upon my return, acting like it was their ranch and how dare I hold them to account for the work they were being paid for but very clearly not doing. All three reacted to being dismissed by raised holy fucking hell, calling the sheriff repeatedly, filing false complaints against me and pissing off the deputies in the process. One went on to steal my identity.

Thus my bar was set so low by the time of Kyle’s arrival, all I hoped for was a non-diva who paid on time and didn’t count speed dialing 911, dealing drugs and adopting big-balled pit bulls as passionate avocations. 

Kyle cleared those hurdles with ease. I don’t remember a particular moment or conversation when we went from being ships-passing-in-the-night housemates and dug into one of the most fun friendships of my life. Finley had a lot to do with it. This perfect little human, a combination of childhood wonder and astonishing confidence, arrived nearly every Friday evening, staying the weekend, eager to do arts and crafts, bake, and be silly with me.

Once when I was slicing through a big block of clay with that piano wire thingie, she asked if she could try. I handed her the wire. She wasn’t halfway through when she announced with great relish, “That is so satisfying!” 

I thought about that for a long time. Not only how she had effortlessly chosen the perfect word for the experience but how fully present she was. I have adopted this word satisfying, this attitude of Wonder Everywhere. Inspired, I have cultivated a regular practice of announcing that this or that experience is SO SATISFYING. It’s a joyful exercise in gratitude made more joyful still because whenever I say it, I hear Finley’s confident voice in my head. 

I tell Kyle often how impressed I am with his parenting. He thanks me and admits the validation helps because not a lot of people see him parenting. I understand. Watching him do this on his own helps me look back over my own single parenting and recognize things I did well, instead of perseverating on all the glaring errors I made, that I regret, that I can never go back and do over. 

I am further moved by his dedication to parenting because my son’s father split before Henry turned three. My boy did not get to experience having a loving, present biological father (though thankfully many men stepped in to help). This is a deep, unhealable pain neither my child or I will ever fully recover from. But watching Kyle do the right thing has proved a soothing balm.

Outwardly it might look like I’m getting my grandmother rocks off playing with Finley. But actually I do not have the grandmother gene. My son has no children. He might never have children. I literally do not care and I find it hard to believe there are still people out there who hassle their kids to have kids. If I ever get a grandkid, I will enjoy the heck out of that child. But this experience is nothing toward which I aspire.

I think there’s more accuracy in Finley’s observation that we are Best Friends. When I look at her, when I interact with her, when I say, “Yes! We can do that!” Or, “Don’t worry! It’s okay that plate/cup/toy broke. Things break,” I’m not just talking to her. I’m time traveling back to when I was her age, when I did not feel safe or confident ever. When, if I broke something, crippling anxiety would seize me—knowing that “punishment” was imminent, that I would for the umpteenth time be derided and promised an eternity in hell no matter how small the infraction, no matter if my perceived “badness” was actually an accident. 

Reminding Finley in so many words that shit happens, that’s just part of life, I am, a half-century later, reassuring my own younger self that it’s okay. That I was not actually horrible, a disappointment, nothing but a goddammed pain in the ass, as I had so thoroughly been convinced before I even got to kindergarten.

I see in how safe she feels around her father what the father/child relationship should be like. I congratulate Kyle for this. And I know it’s not just his presence that allows her to feel safe. I know that her mother, too, though we’ve not met, is also giving her a foundation of love. I have never heard Finley’s father badmouth her mother. And this, too, is what helps her to feel safe, free of the conflict that happens when parted parents use children as pawns. 

And there’s another relationship, too. I am not Kyle’s mother. He is not my son. But there are proxy moments when we fulfill these roles for each other. My own son, slightly older than Kyle, lives very far away. Lockdown made our already infrequent reunions dwindle further. We talk every week, for which I am grateful. But I miss the physical presence of him in my life. 

Many years ago, I had an extremely cranky neighbor who made it clear for years she resented me, though I gave her no reason to feel this way. Then one day, when she had locked herself out of her house, I helped her out. She remained rather feral, but over time she let me in a little more. When she fell very ill, her stubbornness only grew. Her adult sons tried to help her but she pushed them away. At last, purely out of desperation, she allowed me to start doing her HEB runs. Part of this routine involved her chastising me whenever I got the wrong brand or size or whatever. I think, in some twisted way, this made her feel less powerless.

One day one of her sons contacted me to thank me for helping his mother. I told him it wasn’t that hard for me. Because I wasn’t related to her it was easier for me to not take her insults personally. I also told him that I knew back in Jersey there were kind people caring for my psychopathic “father,” whose cruelty had been exacerbated exponentially by Alzheimer’s. I could not be around his sick rage and I did not feel an iota of guilt. Because by then I was finally, slowly coming to understand that we are not obligated by blood to herald our abusers.

This is an imperfect comparison to what Kyle and I have. He has a loving relationship with his parents. I have a loving relationship with my son. But still, complexities always remain with our families of origin. When I do reflect on my own parenting errors—and there were so many—I’m sure he also has stuff to work out regarding his childhood. The emotional safety we have provided each other is key, I am certain, to helping us with our respective sorting.

There was only one time when Kyle made a choice that really fucked me up. One day I noticed he had brought a box of HEB brand Tres Leches Cereal into the house. We all know my battle with refined sugar is real and enduring. The day I first helped myself to a bowl of this stuff, which might as well be called Super Frosted Super Sugar Bomb Sugar Crack Cereal, was a dark one. Dark and insanely delicious. As noted recently, there’s another reason I try to avoid cereal. My OCD kicks in big time as I futilely (and not without some delight) try to get the milk/cereal ratio correct. I add more cereal to the leftover milk. I add more milk to the too-much cereal. In very little time I can demolish the entire box.

I forgive Kyle for this sugar sin. We have laughed over it so many times. Me rushing out to replace the box I finished with two boxes. One for him, one for me. Then buying three boxes. Then four. 

He is gone now. So is the cereal, which I swear (SWEAR) I will not replenish. Except maybe, once in a blue moon, when, in what I already know will be a failed quest to conjure the energy of Kyle and Finley, I will smuggle “just one more” box into the house. I will crunch through it with speed. Whatever guilt I feel I am certain will be greatly assuaged by Proustian memories of the far too brief period when this beautiful young man and his beautiful child graced my life. 

NOTES:

CRONE SHENANIGANS is Tuesday, July 11, 6 pm at the ranch. For Ladies of a Certain Attitude. FREE. There will be crafts, snacks, drinks, music and readings from the Dick Monologues cast. Space is limited. If you want to attend shoot me an email and I’ll send details. 

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