The corrections

No matter how much I worried I was growing apart from my kids (or vice versa), there was still time. I picked Charlotte up after work and asked where she wanted to go for dinner. We drove to Issaquah and picked an unassuming, cozy-looking Greek restaurant with a name I couldn’t make out. She ordered a Coke and a salad with a side of pita and when it came, removed the hot pepper from her salad and put it on the table. They had two options for dessert and we picked the baklava (her first time), and she ate most of it though it was rich and flaky, and required a cutting knife, which she managed well. She tried to braid her hair but lost patience, and I refrained from correcting her, re: playing with her hair at the table. So many of our dining arguments were triggered by that, my corrections, the control thing. When we got home, we went to our separate rooms for down time on our devices. I sent pictures of the champagne sabering to a couple people, and reflected on the day.

A colleague brought in his Chambong set and the bottle of Nicolas Feuillatte I gave him for his birthday. He’d been saying we should saber a bottle sometime, and demonstrated the technique on a whiteboard. You hold the bottle by the underside, remove the foil and cage, then give it a good, even stroke down the neck, with a sword. The force of the cork ejecting breaks the collar so pieces of glass actually travel with the cork when it pops. It’s how Napoleon did it after battle, and we were close to wrapping a project, so there you go.

Seven of us met in the employee parking lot by the picnic table and shared the Chambong glasses, pretty much shooting it. Jeff brought a sword that was more Arabic than French looking, curved, designed for chopping and slashing, with a decorative tassel. Then we climbed the stairs back up, feeling both buzzed and crestfallen we had to go back to work, only 11:30. It was my seven-month anniversary at the new job, and while most of my colleagues drink at the office on Fridays, it was my first time, same as my boss, and we high-fived each other at our desks then returned to work.

Dawn took Lily to the Twenty One Pilots concert in Tacoma and didn’t get home until 1. Saturday, we went to our friends Chris and Kelly’s for Friendsgiving, and in the morning Kelly updated us on her sister-in-law, a rare form of cancer that attacks the small intestines, how unimaginable and terrible it must be for her family.

The four of us went out to brunch, just Dawn and me, and the kids, finally getting out as a family like we hoped. And then we ended the meal deciding Charlotte and I probably needed to go to family therapy, and I thought about it again on Monday morning, driving in to work.

And then in the morning I got up to write and saw Charlotte’s homework by the lamp, it said Social Studies Reflection Packet, Unit One: The First People. A mishmash about the Europeans coming to America, timed around Thanksgiving, probably. Admiring Charlotte’s precise handwriting, how they unfurl like that…me scanning for misspellings, thinking I should spend more time to go through this with her, tonight.

 

 

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in humor, identity, parenting and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

17 Responses to The corrections

  1. kingmidget says:

    Mine are now 23 and 20. For me, it’s not so much the corrections, but the endless need to try to guide them, to get them to see the lessons they could learn in their steps and missteps. I’ve grown extremely weary of it. They are at an age where they should be picking up these things on their own. I want to done with parenting. I may never be.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Lynn Love says:

    Sabering a champagne bottle? That’s properly macho!
    There’s a forlorn edge here, especially about the parenting. All we can do is keep trying, right? Keep being there. The worst parenting I’ve seen (and experienced) is when a parent just walks away, gives up and moves on, leaving so many wounds behind. Just keep on keeping on, keep on loving them – that’s all we can do because there’s no such thing as the perfect parent … or child 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  3. ksbeth says:

    parenting is always a bit of a gamble at best, kind of like the champagne bottle

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I hate to say it, but I’m kind of glad I’m not a parent. On the other hand, I’d love to whack at a champagne bottle with a sword, so. ⚔️🍾

    Like

  5. walt walker says:

    I really like the little details in this one, like she “removed the hot pepper from her salad and put it on the table.” It’s unnecessary, but it’s in there, and because it is, it adds a tiny bit of magic. Very nice.

    Liked by 2 people

  6. rossmurray1 says:

    I had a discussion with Abby’s guidance counsellor today. She’s considering nursing. No, she wants to do nursing. But how can she? I wonder. I don’t want to say she can’t. But how can she? How big a correction would that be: “You’re not capable of this.” I can’t. What kind of parent even thinks that? Luckily her counsellor has some good ideas about related fields. Maybe she can.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. what a lovely mish-mash of the wine, night out with the kids and fun moments. Your writing style makes the event so vivid that I witnessed it.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a comment!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.