Hot potato for one

My cell phone is sitting forlorn in my jacket pocket which is hanging on a peg. It is only several rooms distant, but that seems very far and the cell phone a heavy burden to haul back to my cozy chair and sunny window.

I have to call my dad to let him know that we are expecting a girl in May.

It dawned on me this morning, after I checked my email and found my brother had sent me my father's phone number; which I'd emailed him for.

I've not spoken with my father for almost a year; well maybe half a year.

On my way to get the phone, another realization dawned upon me. I needed to prepare the slow-cooked dinner for tonight. You see, I go to a men's therapy group on Wednesdays; effectively stranding my pregnant wife and young daughter without food. My wife is nauseous around cooking smells and my daughter is only seven.

I hold my parents responsible - possibly unfairly - for my seemingly messed up life. My childhood was a normal one by most regards, but it lacked something vital; the active involvement of my parents.

I prepare dinner and clean up. The dreadful notion of calling clings to me like the stink from the onions I had just chopped. I absentmindedly return to the living room, not sure what to do next, but unconsciously almost frantic to find some way to avoid the obvious.

My father welds shame like a scalpel. I know that my emotions of just anger and hurt will be cast aside leaving me feeling ashamed for ignoring him for so long. He is mostly blind and living by himself in assisted housing in Duluth.

Echos of my wife saying "He hasn't called you either." circle around. Odd, isn't it, that I passively defended him by replying "But I haven't called him either."

I pick up the living room a bit and discover the book of baby names we'd just bought. I settle in my chair and start perusing names.

Zilla...definitely not...

Whilhelmina...noooo...

Colette...I like...

I bump the laptop I'm now writing on that was beside me and my dad's phone number appears, where I'd left it on the screen.

Damn...

I'd tried calling several times in the past days, but each number I had lying around was wrong. We had sent out Christmas cards to my family, but left out the christmas letter mentioning my soon-to-be new daughter; thinking it would be an insult to find out in a letter and not personally.

Putting down the baby name book, I decide to write my feelings and see if it helps. Like weeping the wound of toxins I find myself immersed in tangled emotions.

It's like playing hot potato, by myself, with the cell phone. I picture myself tossing it away quickly, watching it skitter across the dining room floor and bump into the far wall. I wait to have it tossed back to me whether I want it or not. But nothing happens.

Damn I say, walking over to pick it up.