The Dance

I enter the room where my dad is enjoying a nice lounge in a comfortable chair perhaps with tea in hand. He immediately takes on a quiet-as-a-mouse profile with head lowered rolling his eyes so he can watch me cross the room. It is as if this posture will somehow render him invisible. My posture? Avoid eye contact with him at all cost. I am aware of his eyes following me but I look straight ahead and walk briskly through the room. Making it to the other side, I breath a sigh of relief and compliment myself for escaping in time. This is a little dance that Pop and I do at some point in time almost every day.

"Why," you may ask? Pop knows that if he looks my way or if I look at him he will feel an obligation to say, "Is there anything I can do to help?" Because I know his offer at this particular time is out of obligation and because most of the time I don't want him to help, we do this little dance. If you have ever had toddlers you might remember them wanting to help. Similar request. Similar dreaded outcome.

Point in check. Sweeping: "Jude, where is the broom?" -- I have not moved it from it's hook in the closet where it always hangs.
Dish drying: "I'm not sure what to do with these when I finish drying them." -- He asks this each and every time he dries even though I've been telling him each and every time to set them on the island for me to put away.
Laundry folding: "I'm not sure I know how to do this very well."
Vacuuming: "What do you want me to vacuum?" "How do I turn this on?"
Cleaning his bathroom sink: "Jude, what do I use to clean this with?"
And following each chore I'm interrupted from my task at hand with, "You'd better come inspect my work to see if it is OK."

Sometime today Pop and I will do our little dance, same tune, same desired outcome. He'll hide from me. I'll run from him. Lord are you trying to tell me something about patience?