This week, like most weeks, began with trying to make sure dad didn't inadvertently poison my two-year old son in one way or another. If it's not the ashtray full of half-smoked mini cigars left next to the porch door, or the tray of rat-poison he's left out for some imaginary rodent menace on the deck, it's the can of Raid left on a shelf well within reach. The other morning it was the yard fog he sprayed under the kitchen sink in an attempt to kill off an army of ants that mysteriously appear when he is the only one around to see them. Luckily we were all still safe behind bedroom doors in the wee hours of the morning when he decided this was a good idea, but the smell was still lingering in the kitchen when we all woke up, and I had to wonder how much of the food had been contaminated.
It's not that he doesn't care about the welfare of his grandson. It's just that he simply refuses to believe any of his actions are actually harmful, no matter how many people try to tell him in no matter how many different ways. The more time we share a house with him, the more I wonder how on Earth we ever survived our childhood. But then I have to remind myself that, in keeping with his generation, my father's number one responsibility as a parent was to go out and work, not stay home and raise kids. At least once a day my son asks him to change his diaper, and it doesn't get any less funny no matter how many times he asks. I can't think of anything that could possibly be more foreign to my dad than changing a diaper. It's such an exotic concept to him, changing at least one diaper in his lifetime really should be on his bucket list. So I can't hold it too strongly against him when he just does not understand that the first thing a two year old will do if he gets his hands on an aerosol can is point it directly at his own face and spray. I just wish to God he would take the women of the house at our word when we try to explain it to him.
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