Release expectations, let go of the outcome, enjoy the journey.
I feel small now, worrying about my daughter’s lack of acknowledgment in her college “thank you” slide. I’m going to ask her at some point if she considered how her dog’s inclusion and my lack of inclusion might have bummed me out. My guess is, no. My own low point was me, mine, and I was shuffling along with doubts of my own. But not about my daughter. About my ex-wife, about my son, yes. My daughter and I are close.
It isn’t a place I am seeking to exit, to get away from, it’s a place I want to be. A “home.” The feeling of having arrived at safety, comfort, love, cuddles, and joy. I realized as I was speeding along the New Mexican dessert at 105 miles per hour that it isn’t the words, just the time, that matters. It isn’t what I’m saying to my daughter, it’s what I’m showing her, by taking an interest in her. By giving her the right to protest, to change the plans, to yell at me, if she needs to, if she’s feeling unheard. Like for her entire 22 years, or just right now, in Roswell. Probably a bit of both.
Arrived.
Of course, only the most expensive room is available at the Fairfield at Roswell. $149. Plus $10 for parking.
“Um, do you guys have a lot of issues with parking spaces?”
“Yeah, it’s the restaurants across the street.”
It was a lie. An additional $10 and hotel tax for Roswell in one of the poorest states in the nation. “No problem.”
We arrived here by accident. The incident. Driver resets map to focus on home. Route pulls us on a trip around Roswell.
“Dad! It’s literally taking us around Roswell.”
“That’s okay.”
“No. We’re leaving Roswell, Dad.”
“Nothing much to it.”
“You’re really starting to piss me off!”
“What?” I begin giggling. “What do you want me to do?”
“Stop laughing at me. It’s fucking annoying.”
“Okay.”
“You never fucking listen to me.”
“Um. So, you want to go back to Roswell?”
In my world, as the driver, feeling no pain, I was prepared to miss downtown Roswell and take our chances with the next town, or, more likely, the hotel on the larger interstate we were making our way towards, outside of Roswell. It’s no problem, except now she’s mad at me, or embarrassedand unable to say, “I’m sorry.”
She was out of bounds. There was no reason to yell. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. And I giggle when I feel attacked. I was being attacked. A misunderstanding? I don’t think so. She has warned me on this trip that she’s not good with open-ended plans. She wants the details and then she wants to stick to them.
Reminds me a little of hunting with my dad. It’s all he knew. It’s what it meant to spend time with his 10-year-old son. Deer hunting in BFE Texas. Sleeping in a bunk bed with lots of other men. Me and Dad would be out first, before sunrise. Walking the ridges. Scaring up the early doe. Spending time together. We’d sometimes hunt wild turkeys. We’d sit in a cold deer blind, cuddled together, looking out of the small slit window, like a German pillbox or something. I’d lean into him and go to sleep. He’d wake me sometime later, “They’re here,” he whispered in my ear. “I’ve taken your gun off safety.”
It wasn’t about the deer or the turkey for me. It was time with my dad. Time to make him proud. I’m a crack shot. And today, it wasn’t about the conversations we had, even the spat hurled at me. It’s about spending time together. Making a point of spending time together. Finding reasons. Making offers. Letting go of the outcome.
She’s asked for $500 a few weeks ago to fly to Copper Mountain, Colorado for a ski trip. I said no. I’d also been asking her to make a plan with me to go skiing. I won. Soon, of course, she won’t need my money or my time. It will be back in my court to offer resources and time. Then let go. She can be mad. She can have her feelings hurt. She can yell if she needs to. It’s not how I wanted it to go down, this Roswell dust up we had. But, it’s okay. Rough edges are fine. Disappointments are part of life. I’m disappointed she got so freaked out at the variable of time, space, and aliens in Roswell. Perhaps, that’s what caused it. She was inhabited by one of the female aliens still hovering around Roswell.
Roswell it is. In the mini-suite. “Breakfast starts at 6:30,” the cheerfully drab man says after ringing up the suite. He needs my mailing address and phone number.
Ah, 9:48, NM time. We can get an early start.
