Daddy Issues

Tonight I was thinking about a time with Michael and I where I got to really cut loose. We were dating and I got travel with him to Mexico, Belize, ski trips to upper state New York, really fun stuff. I was not thinking about the kind of daddy issues that lead to a pole, although I did take a one night strip course in which I saw myself in one of those floor length mirrors that prompted me to put away the notion of ever doing any moves in front of anyone, including me. I am talking about the kind of daddy issues where I was both mother and father to the kids after Danny died. It went something like this..."Ladies and Gentlemen, we proudly introduce the one, the only, asexual, food encrusted, dust bunny killing, mom/dad combination...Kellie!" To which I would do a sweeping curtsy and trip over the microphone wire, falling directly on my face. Tahdah! I ran offensive tackle for one son, defensive goal keeper for another one and taught my youngest daughter to stand on my feet when she danced. I had to do it all because there was no one else to do it. I was all consumed with kid stuff. Every once in while I got the chance to travel for a few days and forget that I was both father and mother and I got to be all girl. I lived for the those times, counting the days, packing weeks in advance for the chance to board a plane and become someone's girlfriend. I wasn't much of a drinker. I am known even today as TBK, Two Beer Kellie. Given a little food and a dance floor, I can hold my own with a couple glasses of wine, much more than that will lead to me either falling asleep or falling down. Neither is attractive to a date in a bar. I had been pretty much straight sober before my divorce for 7 and 1/2 years, with the only exception being a wild night at the neighbors making luminaries, drinking wine which lead me to be trapped in my own sweater when I got home falling off the side of the bed. The neighbor and I, both really embarrassed, only spoke of it one time after it happened. She had been blasted as well, watching me stumble home, taking an incredibly long time to key into my house, whose door was already unlocked. So you get the picture, I can't hold my liquor, wine or beer, for that matter. One summer while Michael and I dated I got the chance to go to Cozumel, Mexico. It was hot, July, and I was anxious to get the hell out of my house. It was baseball season, pool season, summer vacation for my kids and they were home being "bored" participating in every activity known to mankind. I was working long hours and coming home to chaos. I needed a break, a vacation from being a parent. I needed to be a girl, woman, person who didn't cut up food on others plates, or run a washer 7 days a week, or chief, cook and bottle washer. In Mexico, we snorkled, swam, laid upon a snow white sandy beach, ate fresh fish at nice restaurants, slept in clean sheets sans the little person in my life who did not like sleeping alone. One night Michael took me to a place called Carlos and Charlies, a loud, wild, dance club for the young drunken set. It was perfect for me, seeing all that tanned youth, drinking shots, dancing carefree, happy to be alive. We were at a table when a guy came up and asked if we wanted a tequila shot. "Ooooh, yes, please." I said almost drooling at the idea of not checking my watch for the time to see when I had to get a sitter home. I was free, the kind of free parents get once only in a very few years. It was the kind of free where time does not exist, patients never die and children are with their grandparents, safely tucked into bed. The first shot was in a very thin, taller than a shot glass glass, that went down like silk. "Mmmmm, delicious." I murmured over the hazy after glow of the alcohol. We were laughing and dancing and having such a marvelous time when the guy came back with the second shot, I immediately said "Yeah!" Once again he gave us the magic tequila, while blowing whistles and shaking our heads as we giggled and slurped. "Yum!" was my only response. The music was banging loudly and we continued on being "partying" kind of people. I had met a young man at the next table and in my increasingly intoxicated state, decided a popcorn fight in the middle of the bar was exactly what was needed to liven things up. This young college kid and I had the best time throwing food, dancing on tables, waving our hands being generally fun loving slightly drunk vacationers. The third time the guy with the shots came around, my inhibitions and judgement were shot. Michael raised his eyebrows at me and said, "Kel, I don't think it's a good idea to have a third one. Those things sneak up on you." Not being of sound mind or body, I responded with a flat, "OK, Dad." With that Michael threw up his hands and let me drink the third shot as I danced around in my warm and very fuzzy state. A little later, the popcorn dude was falling to the floor and Michael was escorting me to my feet so we could make the walk back to our hotel room. He held onto my hand tightly as I bobbed and weaved with invisible changing gravity, down the sidewalk, making our way back to our temporary home. I still in my tequila fuzz, fumbled my clothes off and lay in bed in my underwear. I stayed in the exact same position all night long until the sun rose the next morning. My head banging much like the beat of the previous night's music, I felt sick. I wasn't throw up sick, but I was definitely "oh dear God, kill me" sick. Everything on me hurt. My hair hurt. I was so hungover and craving something cold for my face I went out on the balcony, in my underwear and laid down on the porcelain tile. In Mexico the workers get up and go to work at sun up, so there I was this crazy American drunkard laying out on the balcony in my underwear praying for death. I had put on my sun glasses to keep out the light since my eyes had shriveled to the size of raisins, as the Mexican workers pointed to our balcony yelling "Americana, el loco!" as they wandered down the busy street to work. It's not really an exact quote because I do not really know Spanish, and well, I was a little busy being extremely hungover. Later that morning Michael looked at me as I wore dark glasses, my hair tousled, head in my hands and said, "I guess Dad wasn't wrong after all." Had I not known how right he was, I surely would have called him names and stormed off. Instead all I did was laugh for the first time all day, since my tequila incident. I have never called Michael "Dad" since that night. If he tells me I might not want to do something with that raised eyebrow thing he does, I stop doing it. Wild and crazy was fun, but drunk and hungover was not my cup of tea, which ironically is all I could stomach for a while after my tequila regression. I learned something on that trip. First, I learned whistles, music and college students have a price, second I learned to cut loose without the need to lay face first on a balcony in my underwear in a foreign country, and thirdly, the

most important lesson, when your best friend says don't do it, then that is the perfect time to stop.