The kids are very proud of their Armenian heritage on D's side of the family. Since D has also loved to cook since he was a child, he learned all his grandmother's traditional recipes when he was young. One of the kids loves cooking, and she wants D to pass these traditional recipes on to her.
(There are no other Armenian relatives to teach the kids these traditions. D chooses not to communicate with his family and despite my trying to stay in touch with his side of the family for the kids' sake, we are not included in any family events at all. Ever.)
So the other afternoon, D was sitting around playing solitaire on the computer when the cooking kid asked him to show her how to make a particular kid of bread that Nana used to make. He said, "Sure kiddo. Get the stuff out and we'll do it together."
She immediately got the recipe out, gathered the ingredients, bowl, baking pan, and was waiting in the kitchen when I walked in.
"Where's Dad?" I wanted to know.
"I don't know," she replied.
"How long have you been waiting for him?"
"I don't know, maybe 10 minutes?"
I poked my head in the garage.
"D, she's ready for you."
"Ok, be right there."
I knew what was coming, so suggested the kiddo hang out while we wait for him to eventually meander into the kitchen.
She sat at the kitchen table with a magazine and waited.
Ten minutes later, I heard her call out to him.
"Daaaaaad... I'm waiting."
"Just a sec."
Ten more minutes pass.
"Daaaaad, what's taking so long?"
"Hang on..."
I hear her walk across the kitchen and open the door to the garage.
"Come ON, Dad. What are you doing out there?"
(I'm always worried he's going to be surfing porn or jacking off or something when the kids poke their heads in the garage. No, I'm serious. I've never said anything, but the kids are sometimes nervous about opening the door because even they are not sure what they're going to find. Way to create a nurturing and safe home environment, D.)
"Ok, I'm on my way. God, you are so impatient!" he snapped at her.
Sigh. Really? Poor kid. Extra hugs for her from me, and more determination than ever to move us the hell out of the house.
She waited at the table as he finally walked into the kitchen, but he ignored her and started farting around doing God knows what. She leaned back in her chair with headphones on, listening to something loud and angry while she waited.
Before I knew it, he had started making the bread.
"Hey," I asked, "Aren't you supposed to be teaching her how to do that?"
"I waited for her. This needs to get started if it's going to be ready in time for supper."
Biting my tongue, I asked, "Did you let her know you're ready to start?"
"She's busy."
"She's waiting for you. Did you let her know you're ready to start?"
"Well she's sitting down. I need to get this going right away."
"DID YOU LET HER KNOW?"
He glared at me. "No..."
I paused and stared at him.
Out of the corner of my eye I can see she's got her headphones off and she's paying attention to what's going on.
"You know," I calmly advised him, "She is not a mind reader. You have to actually take the effort to communicate with your daughter. She asked you to teach her something that only you can teach. This is important to her. She has been waiting for you for almost an hour."
"You don't have to get snippy with me. I know she's not a mind reader."
"Then how did you expect her to know when you were ready to start?"
"Well she was busy."
"But you didn't tell her you were ready. So how did you expect her to know?"
I'm surprised to hear myself stay calm and polite as I asked.
He threw the dough back in the bowl as it clattered to the floor and he stomped out of the kitchen.
|
|
"Well great, Mom. Now what am I supposed to do?"
"Come on, sweetie, we've seen him do it lots of times. Let's see if we can figure it out."
She and I muddled our way through making the bread and were pretty happy with it by the time it was ready to bake. D arrived on the scene just as the bread was coming out of the oven.
Later that evening, after D went back to hide in the garage, she pulled me aside.
"Mom, why is Dad such an ass sometimes?"
"Honey, I'm sorry but that's just the way he is."
"Mom, we need to get out of here."
"I know. I'm trying."
"Try harder."
