“Who Put French Fries in the Dishwasher?

That was the big question of the morning as I came down for my cup of coffee before getting my daughter off to summer day camp.  “UM, I don’t know”, was my response.  “I don’t eat fries and Brianne never puts anything in the dishwasher, unfortunately”.  His response, “Well, I didn’t do it”.

Yes, dad, yes, you did, it was you.  You are the one who methodically placed each French fry into separate silverware compartments standing up like they were something to be cleaned well.

This sounds funny, and it kind of is, but it’s also very sad.  If this were a one off instance, fine, but I’m am being blamed for stains in the carpet from 10 years ago I have lived with my father for 2 months), broken screens, broken cabinets.  I’m surprised I didn’t get blamed for the the piss all over his bathroom floor earlier this week.

Honestly, though, things are a lot easier then they were than when we first moved in.  I still here the same stories over and over again, he still cries a lot (this from a man who I only saw cry once and that was the day his mother died).  It’s a lot to take in, a lot to absorb, and a lot to adjust to.  Especially alone.

I am a survivor and always will be.  I am a part of the “sandwich generation”, where we are still caring for young children and now we are caring for our ailing parents.  So be it.  Bring it.


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