My father adopted the routine of classifying future events as operations. For example, Operation Fire Snake. He believed that code names are cool and masked the true event from a third party that may not be involved (maintaining the secrecy of the event). During my lifetime, we have completed many successful operations and experienced some epic failures. The most notable failure was Operation Chocolate Thunder, which after some time I believe I am now finally ready to share. There were ominous warning signs from the first time my father described Operation Chocolate Thunder, which should have been heeded. My father outlined that Operation Chocolate Thunder was a plan to go to a performing arts show on a Saturday afternoon. The first thought that popped into my head, “I have never heard my father express even the smallest interest in attending a performing arts show. Maybe this is some kind of lottery or maybe he is being blackmailed.” This was the first red flag. I should have pressed my thoughts further at that time; but I had never been to a performing arts show so there was an element of intrigue that trumped my skepticism.
My father reminded me Friday morning before Operation Chocolate Thunder that we were set to execute the operation the next day. “What are we going to see?” I inquired. “It is some kids music show, storytelling, and dancing thing, is my generic understanding” my father replied. My father’s response immediately caught my attention because his responses were always inordinately comprehensive. “Do you even know what we’re really doing?” I stated in semi-concerned tone. “Your grandmother generated the idea and left me to be point person and spearhead the operation,” he responded. The mystery of why we were going to the theater was solved, as well as the reason for the minimal details. The reason for my father’s poor attitude was now apparent; it was because he was voluntold (when someone else volunteers you to perform a task).
The morning of Operation Chocolate Thunder my grandmother arrived to attend the show with us. It was refreshing to see my grandmother because my father’s demeanor was anything but uplifting. Based on my father’s previous comments, I was under the impression that the parties involved with Operation Chocolate Thunder were Grandma, my father, and I. But to my surprise, as we were preparing to leave, my little brother (AKA Wild Thing) came storming into the living room rip-roaring ready to go the theater. The idea of bringing Wild Thing to a structured event, let alone a theater, was a second red flag. Yet, we continued to throw caution to the wind and proceeded to the theater with Wild Thing in tow.
The car ride to the theater was emphatically the worst ride I have ever experienced. Apparently my disgruntled father forgot to feed Wild Thing in advance of placing him in the car. Consequently, Wild Thing expressed his displeasure in the form of screaming and crying as loudly as possible to really stick it to my dad; the rest of us were just collateral damage. “Dad, are you going to do anything?” I asked. I was surprised he needed “a call to action” given the state of affairs. He handed me a backpack with snacks and told me to give them to my brother until he stopped crying. I complied with the directions provided. Wild Thing ate, and ate, and ate to the point where I ran out of snacks. Meanwhile, my father got lost on the way to the theater, something that frustrates him and me. My backseat commentary likely did not help the situation, “Tick-tock, we do not want be late, are we lost? I don’t want to be late.” Normally, those comments would have triggered a fierce reaction; but it appeared my father was so emotionally aloof that he did even render a response. This was the third red flag. At that moment, we should have called off the operation.
We made it to the theater a few minutes late, which was only the start of the bad news. Just as we pulled into the parking garage Wild Thing regurgitated the snacks he had consumed on the way to the theater producing a putrid smell. That officially made it the worst car ride ever. When we finally parked, my father rushed to address the Wild Thing situation. I thought, “I am pretty sure you can die from smelling that awful odor. ” I begged for relief; the smell was really nauseating. Thankfully my grandmother was there to save me. As I regained my composure I witnessed something that will live with me forever. Wild Thing had a second round of vomiting and this time his volcanic eruption struck the bottom part of my father’s face and landed across his entire chest as my father was lifting my brother from his car seat.
My father just stood there emotionless; it was as if he was feeling sorry for himself in that moment. Well we didn’t have time for his pity party, rather we needed to get my brother changed and get into the theater. “Dad, chop, chop, we need to go,” I commanded. Thankfully my brother had a change of clothes in the diaper bag; while my father had to rummage through his car trunk to find a new shirt. To save time my father instructed my Grandma and me to go ahead and he’d catch up to us in the theater. My father eventually caught up to us in the theater. When he walked in I couldn’t take my eyes off him, frankly I think ever eyeball in the place was fixated on my father as he was wearing a T-shirt that was so small it would have been better suited for me. I’d call it a belly shirt, at best, with the cotton parts that did cover his body appearing almost ironed on. “Dad, if you were going for the shock factor than you achieved it,” I thought. When my father sat next to me I commented, “Dad, did you ever consider sitting this one out and just staying at the car?” To which he replied, “There is no shame in my game.” I reflected, “Well someone’s attitude has turned around; or maybe he has just given up.” Within 30 seconds of the dramatic entrance my father made was followed by an equally dramatic exit because Wild Thing was unwilling to sit in his seat and was vocally expressing his opinion.
When the show ended, (which was actually enjoyable, tip of the hat to Grandma) we returned to the car and drove home enduring the awful smell that permeated the car from Wild Thing’s accident. Even the sweet sound of Miley Cyrus’ Party In The USA could not lift our spirits when it came on the radio; a true testament to how much we were suffering as that song is “my jam” as my father would be quoted as saying. We were all relieved when we got home. Later that evening while consuming his “listening juice” my father tried to share some wisdom to help put the day’s events in prospective. He stated, “We are all going to have some bad days; but as long as the good days far outweigh the bad days we are going to be alright.” From my viewpoint, the days’ problems were entirety self-induced by my father (from his crabby attitude, parenting missteps, getting lost, and the embarrassing belly shirt). In that moment I thought, “My father’s self-perception needed to be tweeked to avoid future operational failures.” I am committed to keeping him in check because he can go rogue, which always produces unforeseen consequences.