Touchdowns & Tortillas
“Do you want a burrito?” he asked me.
“Huh?” I replied.
“A burrito. For lunch. Do you want one?”
“OK. We going to Taco Bell or something?”
“No. I’m going to make them,” he said.
“Yeah, right. You can’t make burritos.”
“Wiseass. Watch. I’ll show you.”
Burritos. Now that I can reflect on my adolescent years, I’ve realized that was it. Burritos.
I’m not sure why it started, but at some point around 8th or 9th grade, my Dad and I watched football every Sunday afternoon and made burritos for lunch. And they were good.
During halftime of the morning game, we’d go down to the kitchen and make two burritos for each of us. Then we’d go back up to my parent’s bedroom, where the good TV was, and finish that game and the afternoon game.
I loved sports at the time. Couldn’t get enough. So it didn’t really matter who played; as long as a game was on, I was in. And so was he. Which didn’t used to happen.
My dad busted his ass to support our family. In my child’s mind, it seemed like six days a week. Sometimes he worked from before I woke up until well after I went to bed. Bell-to-bell, they called it. From open to close. When the economy got tough, the commute got long, and my memory of my father fades.
To support his family, he couldn’t be with his family. The ironic tragedy of middle-class America in the 80s and 90s.
I’ve never been resentful of it, and I’ve always appreciated how much he worked. I look at my two younger brothers and me; our work ethic is impeccable; We get it from him.
As we mature, we reflect on our past. As we identify the holes in our hearts, we tend to overly focus on the painful memories or the absence of what we know now we needed then. In that process, we lose balance in our perspective of our personal story.
Over the last 15 years, I’ve tried to understand what I was missing as an individual. As a parent, I wanted not to make my parents’ mistakes. I failed that task way too soon, working my older kids’ young lives away.
Connecting with a teenager on a personal level is nearly impossible. Every parent pours their heart into trying to find “a thing” that they can bond with their gloomy, “I’m smarter than you,” one-word answer teenager. Emo much?
That’s the hard part of raising teenagers. We want to fix and steer their lives. We want credit for our sacrifice, and we want proof that they appreciate and love us. When you think about it, that’s incredibly shitty. That’s us parents being assholes.
I wished for more individual time with my dad, time I didn’t get. I thought.
But I forgot about the fucking burritos. I mean, I really forgot about them. Now, as a dad, I realize just how significant football and burritos were. Not just for me. But for him.
My dad found that “thing” with the burrito. Watching football was cool, but it wasn’t until he took me downstairs into the kitchen to show me how he made burritos that he put himself into something that connected with me.
He showed me how to fold the tortilla, cook up the ground beef, and prep the vegetables ahead of time. What he really showed me, however, was how to love in the least intrusive way possible. By just being himself and allowing me to come to him.
We didn’t share this ritual with my other brothers or my Mom. Just us. And that’s what made it so impactful, even though I didn’t know the impact it was having on me at the time.
I didn’t realize until today, now 45 years old, that I’m trying to do the same thing. Trying to find the burrito bond with each of my kids, one that I can grow and nurture at their pace.
I work a lot like my dad did. Even my second time around as a parent (my sets of daughters are ten years apart) when I know better.
I cook a lot like my dad did. Cooking makes me feel like I’m contributing something other than a paycheck to my family. I even try to cook with my girls.
It’s hard to make those connections with the kids. And no matter how hard I try, I still can’t fold burritos for shit. There’s probably something in that I may need to explore.
This article originally appeared in The Good Men Project.
