make my toast dry

i’m having issues with my father, specifically with regard to his interaction with Punkin. i was going to say “conversations”, but really what kind of conversation can an 83-year-old man have with a 3-and-a-half-year-old boy when the 83-year-old-man is irrational?

i first became aware of the issue when my parents were visiting to celebrate Peanut’s first birthday. Peanut is their only granddaughter; Punkin is their fourth grandson. Punkin and Paw Paw were outside and Punkin wouldn’t listen to some command or instruction. Paw Paw labeled my son “bad” and spent several hours pouting and ignoring my son. eventually i told my father, Paw Paw, that his job was to give my son unconditional love. it was a strained, difficult weekend, so i wrote it off as a symptom.

the last weekend of July and the first weekend in August, my parents spent both weekends visiting us; we’ve become a wayside for their timeshare adventures (because my father insists on driving everywhere). the first weekend was my mother’s birthday, so most of the attention was focused on her (and they stayed with us merely Friday and Saturday nights). the second weekend they arrived on Friday night and did not leave until Monday morning. my mother was sick, hacking, eventually diagnosed very close to having pneumonia. my father arrived with a belly ache which lasted a day or two. neither weekend was a rip-roaring time, but then again they never are, but i do not recall any specific incident between Punkin and Paw Paw.

as my parents were preparing to leave, they were doting on Peanut. Paw Paw was ignoring Punkin. Punkin pee’d in the corner of the living room. i didn’t make a big deal and got him cleaned up without a bunch of fuss, which is nothing short of a miracle for me … thank God for meds. as we were saying our goodbyes, Punkin wouldn’t give Paw Paw a hug and a kiss goodbye. i wasn’t about to force him to do it. Punkin did insist on waving goodbye as they left. and my father’s parting words to Punkin: “eventually you will realize what side your bread is buttered on.” needless to say this meant nothing to Punkin.

i wrote it off to another strained, difficult set of weekends.

one week later, i’m on the phone with my parents for the weekly obligatory phone call. my father’s opening words to me: “you tell your son he needs to learn what side his bread is buttered on.” my response: “he’s three and a half, and i will not have this conversation with you. we all love you. goodbye.”

my father’s messages have fucked me up for a lifetime and left me with low self esteem. fine. whatever. although he is ignorant of the pain he has caused me, i love him. atleast i know where the negative voices in my head come from. but i will not let him hurt my son. Punkin loves his Paw Paw, and asks when he will see him next. i don’t know what to say. i don’t want to expose my son to that for one second. i don’t care about gifts or an inheritance. my son deserves nothing less than the unconditional love i didn’t get, as it was obviously conditional.