Mom & Me Two Archive

...on our voice mail yesterday:

    "I'm not answering the phone for the holidays, don't have the phone ringer on. I am checking caller ID every once in a while, I am checking messages that are left.
    "For business messages of an urgent nature, I will return them and handle the business as necessary. If they're not urgent they'll wait until after the year is over.
    "For personal messages, I appreciate everybody calling. I'm just not in the mood to talk, not in the mood to do holidays this year except for my way and you guys all know how I feel about the holidays.
    "We are not doing any visiting this year.
    "We are not hosting any events this year.
[Heavy sigh]
    "I may feel like returning calls later, I don't know, just, you know, if you want to leave a message, that's fine.
    "For those of you who enjoy the holidays, Happy Holidays. For those of you who feel like me, hang in there, we'll get through 'em, they're almost over."

    I know, pretty brazen, but I don't feel like enduring anyone trying to talk me into holiday cheer. I've been feeling better since I left it, although very few people have called since. No one has left messages.
    Today was a good day for both Mom and me. Just a few marginal incidents that blew me out of line for awhile. It didn't bother me that Mom was so hard to get going this morning. I decided to start working on her at 1000, assuming that I'd be able to get her up around 1030. She wasn't having any, though, and I didn't feel like whupping her up so I chored the morning away and checked back on her every 15 minutes until I finally got her to give me her hand for blood sugar testing just before 1145.
    She was in a good mood and I worked to get her enthused about accompanying me on a few short errands. Again, she wasn't having any even though the sun was bright and it wasn't that cold outside. I was able to get her to stay up for the hour I was gone with the movie Chocolat, which is clearly a winner. I bought it on a hunch yesterday, since it was on sale. My hunch paid off. She loved it last night and asked for it (as "that movie about chocolate") this morning when I asked her what she wanted to do while I was gone, no napping allowed. I also bought the two volumes of Pee Wee's Playhouse on another successful hunch. At the store I deliberated between those and seasons of M.A.S.H., which she loves, but since she can view that on TV at least twice a day every day for two to fours hours I figured Pee Wee's Playhouse was a better value. I was right. She and I are both transfixed and entertained by that program and she loves to talk about teaching kids while we're watching it and expound on why the various characters and scenarios in the episodes are "perfect for kids". I'm transported into pure joy by the program. Then, of course, we watched Chocolat in the evening and she was transported.
    It was with a light heart that I headed out on errands. They weren't terribly successful but an incident at the feed store where I bought cat food through me for a short loop. Curled up sleeping on the counter was a medium-long haired white-based calico that looked like The Big Girl minus The Big Girl's brown nose. She brought tears to my eyes. The women minding the store were sympathetic and generous and we swapped stories about The Big Girl and their Barn Cat (I buy cat food at a local agricultural feed store in part because of the prices, in part because of the atmosphere and in part because I love the employees and the clientele). So, I felt cleansed when I left.
    Soon after I arrived home a Fed-Ex truck backed into our driveway. I hadn't seen our delivery woman for a couple of months and was anxious to catch up on how her mother and father were doing. They are 85 and 87 (this is the man whom I previously thought was in his 90s) respectively. Her mother was diagnosed as a type II diabetic a couple of years ago. Both parents live with her and her husband, both of whom work and she and I, when she was regularly delivering the breathing meds my mother no longer needs, would discuss our parents' conditions and methods of caring for them. We were both excited to be able to compare notes again.
    They, also, have decided to eschew the metformin that had been prescribed for her mother and are controlling her blood sugar through diet and life-style. We had a lot to talk about.
    Her parents are slowing down but remain 'normally' alert (only slight signs of dementia) and are exhibiting typical age related challenges, especially her mother: Loss of appetite, lack of awareness of thirst, more than occasional constipation. Neither of them is anemic. At one point she told me that her parents were "coming home" tonight.
    "Where did they go?"
    "My sister and brother-in-law in Florida took them for the month of November to give us a rest before the Christmas holidays, all that activity with family and friends, you know."
    I lost control and started sobbing.
    She didn't ask me why. She knew. "You need a vacation," she said.
    I sniffed back my tears and told her that I took a sort of vacation during the month of November, explaining to her what I did.
    She laughed. "You didn't take a vacation," she said, "you talked yourself into thinking you were taking a vacation!"
    Despite the fact that she was grimly right I couldn't help but laugh, too. "Yeah," I said. "It felt good while I was doing it, though, most of the time."
    "But it didn't work," she said, handing me a tissue.
    "No, I guess it didn't. Oh well, I'm taking it light on the holidays this year. Very light. I'm pretending they aren't happening."
    She startled me by climbing down out of her truck and hugging me. "Good for you," she said. "Do what you need to do. You're mom will be fine. You take good care of her."
    "Yeah," I said, starting to cry again, "I know. I just wish I didn't have to make these bizarre choices, I wish I had more energy..."
    "Honey, you've got more energy than anyone I know. If you need a break, take it however you can. Forget what everyone else thinks. You're the not letting your mom down. She'll be fine."
    Several months ago in this journal I wrote about my conversations with the Fed Ex delivery woman and, as I recall (although I haven't looked up the reference), I mentioned that she's my inadvertent local support group. She still is. I'm settled about the my decision on how to do the holidays this year, now.
    Later.

...that "having a baby" could be a sub- or unconscious metaphor she's using to indicate (to herself, not me) that she feels death is near: Not wanting to wait, worried that she may become too old to have the baby, etc. It could also be a recounting of her reason for marrying my father. Although she's told me, at my query, before, that she married him because she was in love with him and she was sure he was the right man for her to marry, well, that's a pretty standard statement and I know both of them were family oriented long before they met one another. It could be that the reason my father was the right man was because he came along at the right time and insisted that she was the right woman.
   The problem with looking for death metaphors is that almost all our "surreal" [thank you, brainhell] conversations could contain such metaphors: Joining the Navy, which is a symbol of adventure to her; teaching in Martelle next year, which is a symbol of wanting to have an impact, of which she may feel she is no longer capable in this life; when she called me mother; when she told me I was older than her; when she insisted I'd coached basketball with her in college; all possible 'death is near' metaphors. I used to consider this with every dynamically phasing conversation she initiated and in which I indulged. One by one, the conversations have passed and my mother remains. So I no longer give much thought to this. I figure, I will not know what her final metaphor for impending death will be until she dies soon after stating the metaphor.
    Then again, it's possible my mother will refuse metaphors for death. Knowing her, it's possible that death will appear before her, crook its finger, she'll look back, a little surprised, say, "Now? Well, okay, let me go to the bathroom first..." and she'll be off without a fuss.

    Mom had arisen from her nap maybe 15 minutes prior to uttering this sentence. I was teasing her hair, getting it ready to style. "Really?" I said.
    "I was going to wait, but I think I should go ahead and have one now."
    "What made you decide not to wait?" I asked.
    "Well, if I wait any longer I'll be past the time when I could have a baby."
    "Well," I agreed, "that's true. I mean, you had me 53 years ago, so you are pretty far along in your reproductive years."
    She didn't bat an eye at this, just nodded her agreement.
    "Do you have someone in mind to father the child?"
    She gave me a sharp backward glance. "I would hope it would be my husband."
    "So. You're going to embark on a man hunt," I said.
    She laughed. "Not exactly; the men are supposed to come to me."
    "So, you want to raise the child within a marriage."
    "I don't know," she mused. "Maybe not."
    "You know," I suggested, "artificial insemination is a reality, now. You could do that."
    "No, no. Then I'd never know who the father is."
    "Yes you would. Or, at least you might. At the very least, you'd know the genetic traits, including things like height, eye color, genetic predisposition toward disease, intelligence, background..."
    "Really!" Her interest lit at this. "I didn't know that was possible."
    "Oh, yeah, and pretty common, now, too. There are sperm banks, you know."
    "Well, that's certainly a possibility!"
    "Would you consider raising the baby without the father?"
    "I...," she drew the vowel out, "don't know..."
    "Well, if you had a baby by artificial insemination, the likelihood of you being a single mother would be high."
    "Oh, that doesn't bother me. That would be fine."
    "I don't imagine it's any easier now to be a single mother than it might have been when you had your first four children but these days there's a lot more attitude support. There are lots of single mothers and no one bats an eye. There are lots of blended families, too...you know, where a child is living with two parents, one of whom is a step parent."
    "I didn't realize that."
    "Oh, yeah. The family you had years ago is a pretty temporary arrangement, now."
    "That's too bad."
    "I know. We had a good family, didn't we."
    "Yes, we did. We had a lot of fun. And we really seemed to enjoy each other."
    "I know we did. We still do."
    "Yes. We do."
    The conversation slipped into a general discussion of the desire to have babies. We talked about how we'd take care of the baby. It became apparent, and finally verbalized by my mother, that she expected me to take care of the baby. She grinned at me, naughtily and nattily, when she announced this.
    I laughed. "Whoa, there! You're the mother. I'm not. I've never even wanted to have kids! If you have a baby, you get to be the mother."
    "I didn't want to have kids until I had them," she said, in retort.
    "Yeah, you did," I reminded her. "You've told me many times that from the time you were a young child you wanted two things, to be a teacher and to have 'a passel of kids'.
    She looked thoughtful. "That's true," she said. "I think, now, you'd be better at taking care of it than me."
    Again, I laughed. "Hey, if the only reason you're having a baby is for me, please, don't bother! I've got enough people to take care of." I actually considered saying "babies" instead of "people", but quickly substituted. Taking care of my mother is not "baby care".
    My mother laughed, too. By this time her hair was styled and I was fixing her lunch. I noted that the news was on, asked her if she wanted to watch it and she took the suggestion with interest.
    It seems that these episodes in which she (and I, just to keep up with her) straddles time and place zones happen most frequently within an hour after she arises from sleep.
    Why don't I barge in with "the truth", as I do in several other situations? When my mother initiates an episode like this my consideration is that we are talking truth, deep truth. Since we've lately had three such episodes in three days (one initiated by me), it may seem as though they're happening more frequently than usual. Not so. We've gone through periods when she's in dynamic phase (like The Traveler in Star Trek: Next Generation) before and I'm sure we will again. We're probably still in the middle of one of these periods. The first couple of times we hit such a period I was sure that it meant she was close to death. It seemed reasonable to me that such dynamic phasing periods would be a means of gathering one's entire life around one outside of time just before death. Well, it's been at least four years, maybe more, since the first one. I no longer consider them harbingers of death. I do, though, always look forward to them. If you've been following us for at least a couple of years you've noted that I always take advantage of them, rather than freaking and trying to steer her immediately back into The Present wherein those of us who aren't considered senile congratulate ourselves on living. Sometimes I learn history about my mother from them. Sometimes I learn the content of one of those psychological secrets mothers keep from their children either without thinking or by design. Sometimes, my favorite times, I sit back and marvel at that of which my mother is psychologically capable and how delightfully magical is the "senility" we're taught to dread, in ourselves, our loved ones, acquaintances and strangers.
    I'm glad my mother is living in a situation where she is not only safe when she practices dynamic phasing but she's got someone traveling with her who can fill in detail, ask the right questions, someone with whom she feels comfortable and whose presence more or less guarantees a safe return; and, I'm glad it's me.
    My mother is as quietly amazing as an Ancient One as she was during other periods in her life. Tonight I'm overwhelmed with gratitude that I'm in her orchestra pit during this last and most mysterious of her ages.

    My morning before my mother's arising went pretty well. I was feeling good, did a few "extra" chores that aren't daily, like defeathering the laundry area behind the machines and cleaning out the second worst of our cupboards (which means I left the 'spice' cupboard alone). The only odd thing was that I couldn't (and still can't) get comfortable temperature-wise. I fiddled incessantly with the thermostats in the living room and dinette (we have baseboard electric heaters), alternately donned and shed layers, two things I hardly ever do, throughout the morning and early afternoon. I know for sure I haven't fiddled with the thermostats since we triggered heating sometime in early October. Didn't think much about this, though.
    Then, around the time Mom decided to take a nap, sometime around 1500, I surprised myself by deciding to take a nap, too. I'd been fighting fatigue for a couple of hours but didn't think about that, either, I just modified my activity, finally whittled it down to almost nothing but thermostat and clothes layer maintenance. I kept Mom busy with episodes of Northern Exposure and folding laundry.
    When I laid down for a nap I was out like a light. Then began having bizarre, active dreams (not scary, just completely inexplicable) and the light started flickering. I also couldn't get warm. Finally, I heard Mom flush the toilet, which meant she'd taken the tape off the flush mechanism (I'll explain later), and I leapt out of bed and almost fell over. Felt really, really awful. So, noting that it was only 1600, I fed Mom lunch with her iron pills and told her I was going back to bed. At that point I slept like the dead until almost 2000. I guess Mom was fine. She had books and magazines piled around her at the dinette table, a glass of water (which she'd gotten herself, amazingly), and seemed fine. I didn't. I slogged through dinner preparation, which we ate about 2245, huddled on the couch under a blanket staring over Mom's shoulder at her Wednesday programs, West Wing and, damn, something else, I can't remember now, and suddenly broke into a sweat and begin fiddling with thermostats and my layers of clothing again.
    Socially, I've been a bear since about halfway through my day. I don't know, I'd like to think it's just a bug and maybe that's part of it is, I can't think of any other reason why I'd be so temperature sensitive. I think, too, some of it's psychosomatic. The holidays are never my shining season and they are particularly onerous this year, even though I've already decided not to do the holiday dash that I usually do. This afternoon, as I drifted into what turned out to be a troubled sleep, I noticed myself fantasizing about hibernating through the holidays and waking up on New Year's Day. That would work if I could keep Mom in bed, too.

    This morning out of curiosity I asked my mother if she was still "thinking about Martelle".
    "I don't think I'll teach there next year," she said. "They won't have what I need. Martelle is too small a district."
    "What do you mean? What would you need that they don't have?"
    "Oh, you know..."
    "You mean, like audio-visual supplies, resources..."
    "There aren't very many places to take kids for field trips an on-site learning. Most of those kids already know every square inch of territory there."
    "Well, you have a point. Have you thought of teaching in a larger area, like a city?"
    "Yes, but not Phoenix. Too big and too little money in education there."
    That's true. I was surprised that she'd remembered the recent education stories on the local news.
    "Would you consider teaching on Guam, again?"
    "No, too far from family."
    Well, I thought, at least, this morning, she has some idea of where she is, geographically. "How about here? I know, from where we sit, it looks like a small community, but the population ranges throughout the year from seventy to a hundred thousand. Lots of kids. Lots of interest in education. Lots of opportunities in public, private and charter schools."
    She looked at me with interest. "You know, you're right. I hadn't thought about that. Might not be a bad idea."
    I was dying to mention the Navy but, for a reason I can't lingualize, decided against it. "Well," I said, "the next time I'm out, you want me to stop by the county and pick up some information about applying? Where they might need teachers and such?"
    "Oh," she said, "I don't need to apply. I've taught here before. I'm sure there won't be a problem. I'll go where ever they need me."
    She hasn't ever taught here but I decided not to question that point. I figured we might be in Iowa this morning, although a larger town, maybe Cedar Rapids, and, if so, she's right, she has taught "here". "Well," I said, "you'll need to let them know you're returning. And, they might want you to update your hiring information."
    "They know who I am," she said. "Everything will be fine."
    Gotta love that woman.

    Regarding taping the flush mechanism: Breaking Mom of the habit of cleaning herself, especially after bowel movements, is a constant battle. I think it's one of those long term memory items that I'm not ever going to change. So is making sure she doesn't flush her iron-laden feces down the toilet before it's had a chance to soften and disipate. One of the reasons I'm now cleaning her is that she inadvertently dirties herself when she cleans herself. The other reason is that she tends to stuff the toilet with paper. At least a couple times a week, sometimes on a daily basis, I've been having to unclog the toilet. When I got a blister from doing this last week I banned all paper from the bathroom except the paper she wears. Unfortunately, I hadn't figured that, yesterday, in a fit of no-toilet-paper frustration, while I was doing something elsewhere in the house and wasn't aware she was in the bathroom, she'd rip her paper underwear apart, use that as toilet paper and flush the toilet. That's when I decided to tape the flush mechanism on her toilet.
    Today, although I tried to keep an eagle eye and a feline's ear on her bathroom, when I laid down for a nap I was a few seconds too late. She had meticulously untaped the flush mechanism and whatever she used to clean herself, I have no idea, went through the pipes. This time there was no clog. Fortunately.
    I guess I'm going to have to monitor her elimination habits more closely now. I thought this wasn't possible considering that I've already got my nose up her ass. I've also made a mental note to purchase a pipe snake at Home Depot and ask if there's a way to fasten the flush mechanism from the inside of the tank so that it can't be triggered unless it's unfastened.
    A piece of good news, we've finally gotten a handle on the weeks long irritation that was developing in the creases at the tops of her thighs that she'd scratch raw at night. I tried several things, including cornstarch 24 hours a day, anti-itch spray, bacitracin for the skin abrasions she was creating and making sure I cleaned her with a special cleanser at least three times a day. Nothing seemed to work very well for very long. Last week I went back to the skin irritation area of the pharmacy once more and found a generic anti-itch cream that didn't contain any oil or petroleum products. We've been using it, now, with the corn starch regularly. You almost can't tell she had a problem. She has a few funny little spots (no broken skin) on her left side so I decided that I'd check out the jock itch products next time in case the spots are a fungus; see if any of those have no oil or petroleum. If they don't I'll use one instead of the anti-itch cream for awhile. If they do, I'll use that product just on the spots and the anti-itch cream everywhere else.
    I'm feeling a little, hmmm...iffy, tonight, but somewhat better since I finally took ibuprofen. I suppose I was probably spiking a fever all day, but I've been taking so much ibuprofen lately that I was trying to avoid taking it, today. I finally gave in. We'll see how tomorrow goes.
    Later.

    Provocative idea, sensitively offered. I thought about it and decided against it. Here's why: The fundamental reason is my mother's seriousness in regard to her decision. To put it bluntly, suppose "you" decide to join or return to the Navy, work up your excitement about it, day dream about the adventure upon which you're about to embark and trot excitedly to the recruiting station only to be told, on sight, that you're 4-F, for some reason so obvious that you're flabbergasted you didn't prefigure your classification? How many photographers and journalists would you like to have recording this moment?
    My mother is nothing if not sassy and would consider 'sassy gal' an appropriate description of herself; so would I, her other daughters and lots of her relatives, friends and acquaintances. While it's true that it is her 87 year old self who intends to re-up, her 87 year old demented self recognizes no reason why the rest of the world would consider her quest merely entertaining. As well, I can imagine what journalists, photographers and editors would make of this moment, considering the absurd pressure toward patriotism in this country right now. The thing is, my mother didn't enter the Navy out of patriotism. She went for adventure. She isn't interested in going into the Navy now out of patriotism. She's interested in the adventure and feels up to it. In addition, she considers the "war" in Iraq ridiculous, ill considered and badly managed. This isn't how the media would portray her. Her visit to a recruiter's office would be interpreted by a savvy editor for the public in a way that would completely misrepresent her, thus sap dignity from her public persona. My mother has never wanted to be known for anything other than who she is. She would never want to be used to promote a cause with which she disagreed. She turned down a "Teacher of the Year" award, once, to this end [Click here for details]. So, while this is an innovative idea offered with sympathetic thought, for my mother it misses the mark.
    Later.

    Not, "Wouldn't it be nice if I could..." or "Do you suppose I could," or any statement with a similar whiff of whimsy.
    So, like any mother-respecting 53 year old daughter of an 87 year old retired teacher, I responded, "What grade do you think you'll teach?"
    "Well. I taught fourth before but I could teach any grade. Where ever they need me."
    "Special Ed style, of course," I added.
    "Oh. Of course."
    "Why Martelle?" I asked.
    "Well, it's close to home..."
    This is the only part of the conversation in which I 'got real'. "Well, no, it's not, we're in Arizona and Martelle is in Iowa..."
    She interrupted me with an "Are you sure about that?" stare.
    "But, we can move there. We've got plenty of time. It's only December and we're good at moving."
    "Yes, we are, that's for sure."
    As her arising and bath continued we talked about her previous experience in Martelle. She taught there for only a couple of years. It was, obviously, not her one-room schoolhouse experience. She lived with a "lady", a "young old maid," she said, "awfully nice, awfully independent" (sounds like a description of herself at that age and beyond). I asked if she got board. "No, I paid rent, had a hot plate, ate out..."
    "Was it Martelle where you decided to go into the Navy?" I asked.
    "No, that was, let me see, I believe we were in Mt. Vernon."
    "Who was 'we'?" I asked.
    "My folks." By this she means her parents.
    "Oh, I never thought about it, but I guess they did live in Mt. Vernon with you, didn't they."
    "For awhile. When Mother went to college."
    My maternal grandmother, while and after my mother went to college, decided to attend college later in life and received her certification in drafting.
    "Were you teaching in Mt. Vernon when you decided to go into the Navy?"
    "No, it was in the summer."
    "Which would you prefer, next year, to teach in Martelle or return to the Navy?"
    "Hmmm, I hadn't thought I had a choice but I suppose I do. The Navy."
    "Hands down?"
    "Hands down."
    "Okay, then. Next year we'll plan on you going into the Navy."
    "What'll you do?"
    "Well, someone's got to take care of your home. I'll do that."
    "You could go into the Navy, too, you know. We could serve together."
    I laughed. "Somehow I don't think they'd take me. Not with my history!"
    "Of course they would," my mother indignantly assured me. I think she figures if she's Navy material, so are all her daughters. In reality, one proved to be and retired from the Navy after 20 years.
    "Well, okay, I'll be your personal assistant, your valet, like Patton had. Certainly, by now your, er, rank would allow you a personal valet."
    My mother shot me her comical "Hold your horses, girl," look. "I heard that pause. I'm glad you didn't say 'age'."
    I had to laugh for a couple of reasons. First, she was inviting laughter with the stern, saucy, cautionary shake of her head and straightening of her shoulders. Second, I realized that she wasn't planning next year from or for her late-twenties self, she was planning it from and for her 87-year-old self.
    "So, next year at this time, we'll be in the Navy," I said.
    "Good. Let's plan on it."

    In case you're wondering, I used to take her memory sessions about Iowa as an indication that she might want to move there for the last years of her life. I've questioned her several times about this. At one point early in our partnership we researched the possibility of moving to Cedar Rapids or Mechanicsville where she still has relatives. Since that time, though, she's visited Iowan relatives twice on her own and has no desire to live there, although not because of the relatives. She's enjoyed their quickly renewed camaraderie but not the area. "It's too old," she's said, as though Iowa has not kept up with her sense of life as an adventure.
    I'm still not sure why she's lately been focusing on Martelle. It used to be Mechanicsville or Mt. Vernon or Cedar Rapids. Now, it's Martelle. Maybe this is a part of a natural Ancient One tradition or rite which involves cleaning out one's attic or, at least, taking inventory and moving stuff around, maybe repacking it.

    I'm in a much better mood than previously. Sometimes I prefer my mother's footloose, fancy-free mind to her shod and shackled one.
    So, next year at this time Mom and I will be on the high seas. Considering that, in Tibetan Buddhism, the ocean is a metaphor for mind, I'm sure this will be true.

...a moon mood hit me and I'm continuing to labor under its influence. Perhaps its the brightening of the weather, maybe there's a temporary somatic cause, I don't know. I decided yesterday afternoon to make pot pies (small ones; "individual servings" if you will, even though Mom and I typically can't finish a whole individual pot pie). I assembled everything for the crusts. My mother excitedly positioned herself to my left at the dinette table so she could kibbitz while I cooked. She hates to cook but loves to attend to others' efforts. I measured the floor, dropped my hands, looked at my mother and said, "I don't know, Mom, today's not the day. I don't know." I dumped the flour back in the bag, put everything away, returned to the table and we played Sorry for awhile. Didn't help, didn't hurt.
    Mom was lively yesterday, which helps me when moods descend. She napped briefly and claimed she hadn't slept, although I checked on her a couple of times. When I'm up and she's sleeping I check on her at least once every half hour, usually more during her naps. At one point she was snoring. I'm amused when she tells me she hasn't sleep but I know she has. This means to me that she was dreaming so vividly and appreciatively that she felt like she was awake and thinking or experiencing or both. She stayed up until a little past midnight. We talked, mostly, nothing earth shattering, she watched some Animal Planet while I computed...
    ...last night I noticed, when I went to Carl's Jr. to get Mom a burger and onion rings, I seem to be immune at the moment to holiday lights. Normally, even in the worst of moods, holiday lights have a salutary effect on me. I take it for granted. Didn't even think about it until I noticed, driving home, that instead of opening up and letting the maze of lights along the way glitter through my soul I critiqued the arrangements of color and sparkle. When I returned home I noticed through the back of the carport that our neighbors on the cliff above and behind us have added this year to their typical light glut and extended it to the fence that touches the northwestern edge of our property. Instead of internally reveling in their grandiosity I closed my eyes and turned away as though the soul of early Scrooge had found a friend in me.
    I checked in on Mom at 1000 this morning. Her eyes were open and I started rising preparations. She shook her head and asked for "another hour or two." It was easy to give it to her. I figure I'll check with her at noon when she'll be working on her 12th hour. She should be ready to rise by then.
    I'm hoping her "uppity" antics will pull me out of myself.
    Later.

...that this will be a relatively (to my natural loquaciousness) short post. Good time to find out if I'm right.
    Yesterday was a surprising day. My mother remained up from the time she awoke until after midnight. She had a plan, hatched the evening before when she noticed that the Discovery Channel would be airing a program on Rameses at 2200. She's a sucker for everything Egyptian and anticipated the program all day. I asked her a couple of times if she wanted to take a nap and she gave me that "I know you're related to me but you didn't get your insanity from me" look.
    This development was especially surprising because I was equally caught up in a marathon sprint (I know that's an oxymoron, but it's a perfect description of what I did, yesterday) through a particular section of my project. Yes, I am thrilled to report that I am continuing with my project with proper due-to-my-mother diligence. It helps, of course, that she is pleased to see me obsessed with a personal project. This is the way I've lived my life since I was very young and I think she feels more comfortable around me when I'm thus involved.
    As we (I put aside my project to enjoy her reaction) watched the program last night, which was overly dramatic but still informative, depending on how much one already knows about Egyptology, I internally recalled her love affair with Egypt. I remember, after a summer's visit to an Egyptology museum in California (I think it was 1963) when we were on vacation in the states, she spent the balance of the afternoon musing about her interest in Ancient Egypt. "I just can't explain it," she repeated while trying to explain it. I remember thinking as she talked that it sounded like she was just this side of copping to the idea that she thought she was a reincarnated ancient Egyptian. Scarabs transfix her, although she's never been known as a beetle buff. She is also a dedicated sunshine person (although not a dedicated tanner) and desert/plane person. Visible horizons, sparse, prickly flora and reptilian fauna hold much more of a fascination for her than rolling wooded areas.
    You may be wondering why, then, we're in Prescott. Aside from the fact that we needed to get rid of one of our "properties" (in quotes because a mobile home is a vehicle, not a piece of real estate and we didn't own the land on which it sat) and it made no financial sense to keep a constantly depreciating vehicle on a constantly appreciating piece of rental property over a piece of real estate, I don't know why she bought a summer home in the Prescott National Forest. I even tried to talk her out of the area, knowing that she has an emotional block toward it which goes back to her parents having lived here. Her decision, though, was implacable and had something to do with this house and its positioning relative to the sun. When she entered it the first time she recognized it as hers. Her decision, though, has nothing to do with the house being in the town of Prescott. It helps her, I think, that I have come to love the area, at least the fact that it isn't the desert, since it appears that we are bound to be here in Arizona until her death. The seasons here, too, are mild, but recognizable as seasons. Mom does prefer a hint of season to the unseasonal sameness of lower latitudes and elevations. The hyperkinetic ambiance of the area in which we lived in the Phoenix metroplex was also beginning to scare her. She no longer enjoyed riding in the car with me even short distances, as she was convinced that we'd never return home. Traffic all over the Valley is fast and impolite. The air there was keeping her in a constant state of allergic reaction, as well. She has two short, seasonal environmental allergy periods, here, and that's it.
    Since I'm recovering from yesterday's marathon project sprint it's a laid back day, the last of this period's snow days: Alternately sunny and snowy as the blanket recedes and the dead weed stalks spring back. When Mom arises from her nap we'll probably polish off the second season of Northern Exposure and I'll definitely make beef pot pies. We were going to have them yesterday but she couldn't release the delectability of the bean soup I made on Saturday and insisted we have it again last night.
    Later.