Saturday, April 24, 2004
"You don't have to make the bed for me."
Yes. I do. About a third of our days, I "have" to make it twice. I've got the routine down to the point where, overall, stripping, disinfecting/cleaning and making her bed takes very little time or effort. A few days ago my mother, for some curious reason into which I didn't pry, followed me into the bedroom and told me she was going to time how long it took me to make her bed.
I grinned. "I'll bet it takes me less than a minute without rushing."
"54 seconds," was the tally. That included using the one sheet we have that's the decades old, slightly smaller single sheet size and resists latching itself under the corners of beds younger than a decade.
It's funny because I understand my mother's protests. I'll sleep well on anything, anywhere, if I'm really tired. My bedding certainly doesn't get changed and washed every day and that's fine with me. I know, though, how sensuously delicious it is to snuggle into a clean, made bed, and this is one of the mundane pleasures that I can offer my mother, aside from the fact that, in her case, it is hygienically important to change and wash all her bedding, including the comforter and, at least twice a week, the pillow.
My mother doesn't seem to respond to the "big" pleasures, anymore: Things like watching a movie in a theater, attending a concert or a play, trade shows for the public, visiting an arboretum or a zoo, even eating in a restaurant, which continues to appear on her "big pleasures" list can sometimes be dicey, now. If the sound level plays havoc with her hearing, if the restaurant is too full or too empty, it there are too many or too few kids, if the portions are too big or too small, if the lighting is "romantic" (which is to say, softened toward the dullness in which physical imperfections are hard to distinguish), if our waitperson appears to have his/her eye on other tables while waiting on us, she loses her appetite and decides "it's about time to get home". A couple of years ago it was almost impossible to get her out of a restaurant, even a bad restaurant. Now when we go out to eat it's anybody's guess whether she'll enjoy herself.
Yesterday was a strange day for me. Fairly active for Mom, although she, again, refused, this time vociferously, my suggestions of things to do outside of the house, even accompanying me on a few errands. She balked at my good-natured attempts at "forcing" her to get out. So I saved the errands until she decided to take a nap late in the afternoon after we'd played Sorry and she'd soundly beaten me, after we'd watched Cheaper by the Dozen [a bit more on this movie further down], after she'd helped me fold clothes, after we'd sat at the dining room table and rediscussed the Mother's Day menu.
Although the day had so far been what I would objectively consider successful, I was in a hell of a mood when I headed out on errands. I plodded through the errands as though I knew death was waiting for me at the end. Mom had asked me to see if there was anything "new" at the video store that might be interesting to watch. Although there were several new releases I couldn't find anything that I thought my mother or I would consider worth watching. At Mom's request I'd picked up "one of those chicken pot pies that looks so good" at Costco. I noticed that they require 1.5 hours baking time and figured that was going to create a problem. While I handled the packaged pie I considered putting it back and lying that Costco was out of chicken pot pies but I was in such a terrible mood that I relished the possibility of announcing, to what I was sure would be my mother's dismay, that dinner was going to be awhile. When I arrived home I was only able to summon energy in short, frustrating bursts which strung unloading the car out so long that the continual opening and closing of the front door awoke and concerned my mother.
While my mother stood in the door watching me haul a box of paper underwear out of the car as though the absorbent fibers were laced with lead she said, "Your breakfast is still on the counter. Have you eaten anything today?"
Suddenly I realized, no, I hadn't eaten a thing. I couldn't remember why but, somehow, in the midst of preparing two meals for my mother before she napped and one for myself and working unsuccessfully to get her out I had neglected to eat anything. I'd taken my Black Cohosh and other supplements with my morning coffee but I hadn't eaten anything. No wonder.
Last night I resolved that even if it increases my chore load, which it surely will since I awaken much earlier and retire much later than my mother, I would eat at least 3 times a day. This will mean eating breakfast a few hours before my mother is breakfasting, or even awake. This will mean that, likely, the only meal we'll eat together will be dinner, although I will still be at the table or next to her or in the living room, making conversation for all my mother's meals. This will mean that, day after day, I will be explaining, at least twice, why it is she's eating and I'm not. When I'm feeling physically good and emotionally tightly knit, though, I can answer the same question over and over and over as though it's a new question, and internally reason and externally display that it is, indeed, a new question since it's being asked in a new moment. I can make 5 meals a day. I can do everything that's necessary, many things that aren't, and do them all with a tangy twist. All I have to do is remember to eat regularly. It's true. Sometimes the solution is a lot simpler than the problem.
Lastly, this morning, when she awoke and we conversed her out of bed, she mentioned with a satisfied smile that she had been thinking about the movie Cheaper by the Dozen. I was pleasantly surprised (although I didn't mention it). She still insists, whenever we watch Finding Nemo that it's her first time viewing that movie. Her ability to remember Cheaper by the Dozen, though, indicates to me that it isn't always her memory that's the problem, it's her interest. You'd think I would have figured this out a long time ago, but, well, as my mother would say, "I'm a little slow, just go around me."
She's up from what turned out to be a 45 minute nap today. I just talked to her about how, with her being up so much more, now, we need to cooperate on getting her out. I explained how easy it is for me to give up in the face of her intransigence to movement and all the reasons why this is so (even the illegitimate ones) and that, "It's time to get you out, again, Mom, even if you don't want to go. Look," I continued, "I'm the kind of person who would be perfectly happy not conversing with anyone for months at a time and have been; I'm the kind of person who doesn't mind looking at the same four walls day after day because I am good at embellishing those walls with the contents of my mind. But, Mom, you're more social than me [not hugely social, on a total population continuum, but much more social than me]. You need to see, regularly, that there are other people in the world. You need to see them move, hear them speak, you need to be out in the day, and you need to do this much more than I do. So, I think it's time, Mom."
"Yes, I think you're right. It's time."
Whether she was simply agreeing with me so that I'd let her eat her tuna sandwich in peace remains to be seen. But, well, here we go again. "Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Look at what's around you, Mom, and move toward it. Motivation is the best teacher of movement."
Another quick errand to run. Later.
I grinned. "I'll bet it takes me less than a minute without rushing."
"54 seconds," was the tally. That included using the one sheet we have that's the decades old, slightly smaller single sheet size and resists latching itself under the corners of beds younger than a decade.
It's funny because I understand my mother's protests. I'll sleep well on anything, anywhere, if I'm really tired. My bedding certainly doesn't get changed and washed every day and that's fine with me. I know, though, how sensuously delicious it is to snuggle into a clean, made bed, and this is one of the mundane pleasures that I can offer my mother, aside from the fact that, in her case, it is hygienically important to change and wash all her bedding, including the comforter and, at least twice a week, the pillow.
My mother doesn't seem to respond to the "big" pleasures, anymore: Things like watching a movie in a theater, attending a concert or a play, trade shows for the public, visiting an arboretum or a zoo, even eating in a restaurant, which continues to appear on her "big pleasures" list can sometimes be dicey, now. If the sound level plays havoc with her hearing, if the restaurant is too full or too empty, it there are too many or too few kids, if the portions are too big or too small, if the lighting is "romantic" (which is to say, softened toward the dullness in which physical imperfections are hard to distinguish), if our waitperson appears to have his/her eye on other tables while waiting on us, she loses her appetite and decides "it's about time to get home". A couple of years ago it was almost impossible to get her out of a restaurant, even a bad restaurant. Now when we go out to eat it's anybody's guess whether she'll enjoy herself.
Yesterday was a strange day for me. Fairly active for Mom, although she, again, refused, this time vociferously, my suggestions of things to do outside of the house, even accompanying me on a few errands. She balked at my good-natured attempts at "forcing" her to get out. So I saved the errands until she decided to take a nap late in the afternoon after we'd played Sorry and she'd soundly beaten me, after we'd watched Cheaper by the Dozen [a bit more on this movie further down], after she'd helped me fold clothes, after we'd sat at the dining room table and rediscussed the Mother's Day menu.
Although the day had so far been what I would objectively consider successful, I was in a hell of a mood when I headed out on errands. I plodded through the errands as though I knew death was waiting for me at the end. Mom had asked me to see if there was anything "new" at the video store that might be interesting to watch. Although there were several new releases I couldn't find anything that I thought my mother or I would consider worth watching. At Mom's request I'd picked up "one of those chicken pot pies that looks so good" at Costco. I noticed that they require 1.5 hours baking time and figured that was going to create a problem. While I handled the packaged pie I considered putting it back and lying that Costco was out of chicken pot pies but I was in such a terrible mood that I relished the possibility of announcing, to what I was sure would be my mother's dismay, that dinner was going to be awhile. When I arrived home I was only able to summon energy in short, frustrating bursts which strung unloading the car out so long that the continual opening and closing of the front door awoke and concerned my mother.
While my mother stood in the door watching me haul a box of paper underwear out of the car as though the absorbent fibers were laced with lead she said, "Your breakfast is still on the counter. Have you eaten anything today?"
Suddenly I realized, no, I hadn't eaten a thing. I couldn't remember why but, somehow, in the midst of preparing two meals for my mother before she napped and one for myself and working unsuccessfully to get her out I had neglected to eat anything. I'd taken my Black Cohosh and other supplements with my morning coffee but I hadn't eaten anything. No wonder.
Last night I resolved that even if it increases my chore load, which it surely will since I awaken much earlier and retire much later than my mother, I would eat at least 3 times a day. This will mean eating breakfast a few hours before my mother is breakfasting, or even awake. This will mean that, likely, the only meal we'll eat together will be dinner, although I will still be at the table or next to her or in the living room, making conversation for all my mother's meals. This will mean that, day after day, I will be explaining, at least twice, why it is she's eating and I'm not. When I'm feeling physically good and emotionally tightly knit, though, I can answer the same question over and over and over as though it's a new question, and internally reason and externally display that it is, indeed, a new question since it's being asked in a new moment. I can make 5 meals a day. I can do everything that's necessary, many things that aren't, and do them all with a tangy twist. All I have to do is remember to eat regularly. It's true. Sometimes the solution is a lot simpler than the problem.
Lastly, this morning, when she awoke and we conversed her out of bed, she mentioned with a satisfied smile that she had been thinking about the movie Cheaper by the Dozen. I was pleasantly surprised (although I didn't mention it). She still insists, whenever we watch Finding Nemo that it's her first time viewing that movie. Her ability to remember Cheaper by the Dozen, though, indicates to me that it isn't always her memory that's the problem, it's her interest. You'd think I would have figured this out a long time ago, but, well, as my mother would say, "I'm a little slow, just go around me."
She's up from what turned out to be a 45 minute nap today. I just talked to her about how, with her being up so much more, now, we need to cooperate on getting her out. I explained how easy it is for me to give up in the face of her intransigence to movement and all the reasons why this is so (even the illegitimate ones) and that, "It's time to get you out, again, Mom, even if you don't want to go. Look," I continued, "I'm the kind of person who would be perfectly happy not conversing with anyone for months at a time and have been; I'm the kind of person who doesn't mind looking at the same four walls day after day because I am good at embellishing those walls with the contents of my mind. But, Mom, you're more social than me [not hugely social, on a total population continuum, but much more social than me]. You need to see, regularly, that there are other people in the world. You need to see them move, hear them speak, you need to be out in the day, and you need to do this much more than I do. So, I think it's time, Mom."
"Yes, I think you're right. It's time."
Whether she was simply agreeing with me so that I'd let her eat her tuna sandwich in peace remains to be seen. But, well, here we go again. "Shoulders back. Eyes forward. Look at what's around you, Mom, and move toward it. Motivation is the best teacher of movement."
Another quick errand to run. Later.
