When my daughter was about four, she’d get tired of the food on her dinner plate, push it away and announce “I’m done.” To which my measured reply was: “You’re not done until I say so. Keep eating.”
At age six, she still has a tendency to leave certain foods untouched, but since she’s figured out the game well enough to try and make me think she’s submitting to authority, she asks, “Mom, can I be done?” My reply hasn’t changed, but her wording did get me thinking.
There are an awful lot of things I’d like to be done with. My short list includes night sweats, hairline grays that refuse to take color, and random chin hairs that seem to sprout overnight. It’s especially nice when you find one of these hairs by accident, say while checking your makeup in your review mirror, on your way home from seeing friends.
I’d also like to be done with all things Bikini Bottom. Unlike Bob the Builder, Dora the Explorer or The Backyardigans, Sponge Bob seems to outlive all developmental stages, apparently remaining hilarious to audiences from pre-school to pre-teen and beyond. If your children are young and you are still a Sponge Bob newbie, you might say: “But I like Sponge Bob – it’s funny!” I said that too. Six years ago. Back when it was still funny. When you have seen the driving school episode a gazillion times, trust me, you will want it to be done.
While I’m kicking over some pop culture sacred cows, can I be done with Hannah Montana? I know tweens and moms love her wholesome image, her hunky dad and her quirky antics, but can’t we all really see where this is going? She will grow up and long to pursue grown up roles. To achieve this she will need to shed the squeaky clean Disney image, and like the Britneys and Lindseys before her, she will fall from grace and leave a lot of karaoke-crazed little girls in the dust. I hope I’m wrong – but I’d still like to sever the relationship now, before things get ugly.
I’d like to be done with ridiculous news fillers masquerading as headline news. Does anybody really care what a beauty pageant contestant thinks about gay marriage? Does anybody care what Perez Hilton thinks about what she thinks about gay marriage? Spare me.
I’d like to be done with people who respond to a polite “thank you,” with the ubiquitous “No worries.” Call me old fashioned but in my book, “You’re welcome,” is still the correct answer.
Public displays of butt-crack tattoos? Done. People who shout into cell phones while shopping, dining or simply walking down the street. Done. And any coffee drink that requires more than a three word description while ordering (it’s just so nineties) - totally done.
Well it felt good to get all that out of my system. And I know what you’re thinking. “Is she done yet?”
Done.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
It's the Gift, Not the Thought That Counts
I was flipping through my latest issue of Real Simple today when I came across an ad that really shocked me. The picture showed a close up of a yummy looking egg dish and the headline in big bold letters declared: “Mom deserves the best...get her the non-stick frittata pan.”
Excuse me?
How is it possible in 2009 that a modern magazine (Real Simple no less) can feature an antiquated ad suggesting that because I’m a mom I will be thrilled to receive some sort of appliance for Mother’s Day? Because the obvious aftermath of unwrapping that pan, or any pan, is that I will then use it to cook something. For somebody else. New washing machine? Go do some laundry why don’t ya! Vacuum cleaner? Start sucking it up honey the dust bunnies are waiting.
I happen to be married to a guy who basically gets it, so I’m confident I won’t be getting the aforementioned frittata pan on May 10. But since I have a platform to vent, I thought I’d make a short list of dos and don’ts when shopping for moms – ladies feel free to weigh in with your own hit list:
First, do not get me chocolate, cookies or any kind of baked goods. As every mom in America knows, Mother’s Day falls a scant 17 days prior to Memorial Day, the beginning of yet another long and unforgiving swimsuit season. Now is not the time to trip us up.
Don’t take me to some overpriced all-you-can-eat brunch. See reason above.
Unless you went to see Vicky, do not buy me a “warm” robe, “cozy” slippers, or “comfy” pj’s. I do not want to look or feel like my mother on Mother’s Day.
Do think outside the box. Why not create a really cool playlist of songs you think I’d like and then send me off with a tall, cool drink to chill out and groove.
Make me a mimosa. Because champagne is fun, especially in the morning, and because it’s impossible not to smile when you say “mimosa.”
Take the kids to a matinee. This may surprise you but I actually love my home when I’m the only one in it. No one leaving piles to be picked up. Nobody bugging me for snacks, sex or both. It also lets me do the things women like to do when they are alone, like put a shower cap on and deep condition my hair or pass gas freely without having to hold it in until everyone else leaves the immediate vicinity.
I’d love to hear from my readers on what their ideal Mom’s Day gift is. It would be funny to hear what some of the all time bombs are too. In the meantime I’m calling Calphalon to invite them to wake up and join the 21st century. Who knows, maybe I’ll go ahead and order an egg pan while I have them on the phone.
Excuse me?
How is it possible in 2009 that a modern magazine (Real Simple no less) can feature an antiquated ad suggesting that because I’m a mom I will be thrilled to receive some sort of appliance for Mother’s Day? Because the obvious aftermath of unwrapping that pan, or any pan, is that I will then use it to cook something. For somebody else. New washing machine? Go do some laundry why don’t ya! Vacuum cleaner? Start sucking it up honey the dust bunnies are waiting.
I happen to be married to a guy who basically gets it, so I’m confident I won’t be getting the aforementioned frittata pan on May 10. But since I have a platform to vent, I thought I’d make a short list of dos and don’ts when shopping for moms – ladies feel free to weigh in with your own hit list:
First, do not get me chocolate, cookies or any kind of baked goods. As every mom in America knows, Mother’s Day falls a scant 17 days prior to Memorial Day, the beginning of yet another long and unforgiving swimsuit season. Now is not the time to trip us up.
Don’t take me to some overpriced all-you-can-eat brunch. See reason above.
Unless you went to see Vicky, do not buy me a “warm” robe, “cozy” slippers, or “comfy” pj’s. I do not want to look or feel like my mother on Mother’s Day.
Do think outside the box. Why not create a really cool playlist of songs you think I’d like and then send me off with a tall, cool drink to chill out and groove.
Make me a mimosa. Because champagne is fun, especially in the morning, and because it’s impossible not to smile when you say “mimosa.”
Take the kids to a matinee. This may surprise you but I actually love my home when I’m the only one in it. No one leaving piles to be picked up. Nobody bugging me for snacks, sex or both. It also lets me do the things women like to do when they are alone, like put a shower cap on and deep condition my hair or pass gas freely without having to hold it in until everyone else leaves the immediate vicinity.
I’d love to hear from my readers on what their ideal Mom’s Day gift is. It would be funny to hear what some of the all time bombs are too. In the meantime I’m calling Calphalon to invite them to wake up and join the 21st century. Who knows, maybe I’ll go ahead and order an egg pan while I have them on the phone.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Sleepless in the Suburbs
The thing about being a mid-life mom is that your body throws way more curves your way than your kids ever do. Just when you’ve got the parenting thing down pat, you begin to lose control of your bodily functions. Okay, I’m not using Depends yet. But when my hormones started going haywire a couple of years ago, my internal thermostat began to reset - I used to perspire; now I sweat. My moods went from even keel to completely off kilter. And I have turned into a nocturnal creature, an exhausted shell of a woman who craves sleep more than sex, food or oxygen.
If you read any books on perimenopause, you’ll see insomnia listed as one of the most common symptoms. Before you experience it for yourself, however, you may think it is easily remedied. A glass of wine. Soft music. A warm bath. How hard can it be to fall asleep? As a two year veteran of the sleepless sisterhood, I can say with some assurance that it is virtually impossible.
Let me pause here to say that it’s not that I haven’t slept at all in 24 months. Most of the time I’m so tired I fall right to sleep once I hit the pillow. I just don’t stay asleep long enough for it to matter. As if wired to some invisible, sadistic alarm, my body jolts awake without fail between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. most every night. I don’t look at the clock anymore, but I can tell from the pitch darkness of my bedroom that it is still hours until daybreak. And then I do what millions of other hormonally challenged women do to pass the time.
I wonder if I should have bought those black pumps instead of the brown ones. I have imaginary do over conversations with people I’m still angry with. I stress about bills I haven’t paid and feel guilty about all of my parenting mistakes. I think about men I didn’t marry, vacations I never took, and as I roll over for the umpteenth time, check to see if I can pinch an inch around my mid section while making a mental note to get to the gym this week.
When I can’t sleep, I become curious about who else is up. I never actually get out of bed; it would be like admitting defeat; but if I did, I would log onto FB or head over to the open-all-night Walmart, just to reassure myself that I am not alone.
Are you in the sleepless suburban sisterhood? If you are, you will recognize others of your species by their markings. We are the women wearing layers of concealer atop our permanent undereye circles. We keep Viseen and Nodoze in our purses. We smile and nod a lot when people talk to us in an attempt to hide the fact that we have mastered the art of napping mid conversation. When we are with one another, we cluster and cluck about our mutual exhaustion, marveling at the effortless energy displayed by women half our age. When we were young, with so much yet to accomplish, we wished for more hours in a day.
Be careful what you wish for.
If you read any books on perimenopause, you’ll see insomnia listed as one of the most common symptoms. Before you experience it for yourself, however, you may think it is easily remedied. A glass of wine. Soft music. A warm bath. How hard can it be to fall asleep? As a two year veteran of the sleepless sisterhood, I can say with some assurance that it is virtually impossible.
Let me pause here to say that it’s not that I haven’t slept at all in 24 months. Most of the time I’m so tired I fall right to sleep once I hit the pillow. I just don’t stay asleep long enough for it to matter. As if wired to some invisible, sadistic alarm, my body jolts awake without fail between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. most every night. I don’t look at the clock anymore, but I can tell from the pitch darkness of my bedroom that it is still hours until daybreak. And then I do what millions of other hormonally challenged women do to pass the time.
I wonder if I should have bought those black pumps instead of the brown ones. I have imaginary do over conversations with people I’m still angry with. I stress about bills I haven’t paid and feel guilty about all of my parenting mistakes. I think about men I didn’t marry, vacations I never took, and as I roll over for the umpteenth time, check to see if I can pinch an inch around my mid section while making a mental note to get to the gym this week.
When I can’t sleep, I become curious about who else is up. I never actually get out of bed; it would be like admitting defeat; but if I did, I would log onto FB or head over to the open-all-night Walmart, just to reassure myself that I am not alone.
Are you in the sleepless suburban sisterhood? If you are, you will recognize others of your species by their markings. We are the women wearing layers of concealer atop our permanent undereye circles. We keep Viseen and Nodoze in our purses. We smile and nod a lot when people talk to us in an attempt to hide the fact that we have mastered the art of napping mid conversation. When we are with one another, we cluster and cluck about our mutual exhaustion, marveling at the effortless energy displayed by women half our age. When we were young, with so much yet to accomplish, we wished for more hours in a day.
Be careful what you wish for.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Watching the Second Hand
I read an article on time management recently and the author described one of the women profiled as a “full time student and full time mom.” I come from a generation of women weaned on the Helens: Reddy and Gurley Brown, which means I wholeheartedly believe a woman can do it all. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve had to concede you really can’t do or have it all at the same time. Especially not when you have kids. So while I think you can be a full time student OR a full time mom, you can't be both in a 24-hour day. In the past six weeks, I’ve learned this lesson first hand.
Since I’ve gone back to working a 40 hour week, my time and my heart are divided. I spend my days with virtual strangers with a scant three hours left over each evening to connect with my children. I can’t surprise them and swing by Baskin Robbins on the way home from school – it’s well past dinner time when we drag in each night. I can’t chauffer them to tennis or dance – my sitter does that now. I’m not even there to help with homework – they do it with teacher’s aide in the after-school homework club. I’m a full time writer. And a part time mom. And it hurts to put the words on paper.
I write because I love the written word. But I work because I prefer to write with a roof over my head. My decision to abandon the freelance life was made amid the pressure of a floundering economy and a need for two steady incomes, and I’m so thankful to be working in a field I enjoy. But at the end of the day (literally) I miss my babies.
When I had the luxury of being a full time parent and part time writer, I would sit at the park with other SAHMs and wonder aloud how working mothers did it. We, feeling stressed and harried with our carbon copy to do lists, thought we knew what it meant to be busy. Playdate. Costco. Post office. Bible study. Drive through Mickey D’s. Teacher conference. Dentist appointment. Sooooo busy. But we had our children with us, which often slowed us down, but brought with it a comfort we would not recognize until it was gone.
My son is in 5th grade and basically gets it when it comes to the economy and the reason mommy went back to work. He was doing pretty well with it too, until he realized I don't get off work in summer just because school is out. His dreams of lying around the house for three months are being replaced with long days at summer camp. My first grader remains somewhat clueless, but will surely ask why mommy isn’t driving on the next field trip. My response to these disappointments is tempered; I don’t want them to see how much more it disappoints me.
There are parenting theories about time, quality versus quantity. Having been on both sides of the debate, I’ve concluded that when it comes to being a mom, there is no quality or quantity; there is simply time. 24 hours in a day of your son or daughter’s childhood that slips by in a blink. For the working mother, that time becomes achingly precious. As I drop them off each morning, their small silhouettes diminishing too quickly in my rear view mirror, I tell myself I am doing the right thing. And then I will myself to keep driving, counting the hours until I see them again.
Since I’ve gone back to working a 40 hour week, my time and my heart are divided. I spend my days with virtual strangers with a scant three hours left over each evening to connect with my children. I can’t surprise them and swing by Baskin Robbins on the way home from school – it’s well past dinner time when we drag in each night. I can’t chauffer them to tennis or dance – my sitter does that now. I’m not even there to help with homework – they do it with teacher’s aide in the after-school homework club. I’m a full time writer. And a part time mom. And it hurts to put the words on paper.
I write because I love the written word. But I work because I prefer to write with a roof over my head. My decision to abandon the freelance life was made amid the pressure of a floundering economy and a need for two steady incomes, and I’m so thankful to be working in a field I enjoy. But at the end of the day (literally) I miss my babies.
When I had the luxury of being a full time parent and part time writer, I would sit at the park with other SAHMs and wonder aloud how working mothers did it. We, feeling stressed and harried with our carbon copy to do lists, thought we knew what it meant to be busy. Playdate. Costco. Post office. Bible study. Drive through Mickey D’s. Teacher conference. Dentist appointment. Sooooo busy. But we had our children with us, which often slowed us down, but brought with it a comfort we would not recognize until it was gone.
My son is in 5th grade and basically gets it when it comes to the economy and the reason mommy went back to work. He was doing pretty well with it too, until he realized I don't get off work in summer just because school is out. His dreams of lying around the house for three months are being replaced with long days at summer camp. My first grader remains somewhat clueless, but will surely ask why mommy isn’t driving on the next field trip. My response to these disappointments is tempered; I don’t want them to see how much more it disappoints me.
There are parenting theories about time, quality versus quantity. Having been on both sides of the debate, I’ve concluded that when it comes to being a mom, there is no quality or quantity; there is simply time. 24 hours in a day of your son or daughter’s childhood that slips by in a blink. For the working mother, that time becomes achingly precious. As I drop them off each morning, their small silhouettes diminishing too quickly in my rear view mirror, I tell myself I am doing the right thing. And then I will myself to keep driving, counting the hours until I see them again.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The One That Got Away
I am officially hooked on FB and have re-connected with various BFFs from my past life. It’s fun and funny, and strangely empowering. You get that “fifteen minutes of fame” rush every time you make a mundane comment and half a dozen people weigh in on it. Suddenly, you’re the EF Hutton of cyberspace. My issue is that unlike many who have connected with old flames via social networking, I have not found a single former squeeze. I recently posted my frustration on my wall – I mean, where are these guys?
Last summer I attended my 30-year high school reunion and had an absolute blast. There’s a certain comfort level that comes with age – you no longer have to prove anything and can just relax and enjoy catching up with people who were largely responsible for the person you’ve become. I laughed and shared family pics with friends who knew me when – but every now and then I found myself looking over my shoulder for a face I’m not sure I’d recognize. In my mind and in my heart, he’s frozen in time, forever 19 and the one that got away.
Almost everyone has someone who haunts the high school hallways of their past. It could be an unrequited love, a first crush, love or heartbreak. Mine was most if not all of those – a boy who stole my innocence and my trust, so much so that over 30 years later I ponder the question “What if?”
Let me pause here to say I love my husband. Really. My online search has nothing to do with wanting to reignite some fantasy old flame; that would truly be a bridge to nowhere. No, it’s more about trying to understand the real nature of love and its ability to linger long after a relationship dies. And it’s a desire to merge fantasy with reality; because this boy in my memory is not 19. He’s nearly 51, his lean teenage body undoubtedly gone soft around the middle, the hair I tangled my fingers through grown thin and frosted with gray. He is married or divorced. He is a father, possibly a grandfather. Like me, he’s celebrated successes and setbacks. And I realize (though I find it hard to believe) he may not even remember me.
The lesson here, if you believe things happen or don’t for a reason, is that some things from your past are better left to memory.
I’ll let you know if I find him.
Last summer I attended my 30-year high school reunion and had an absolute blast. There’s a certain comfort level that comes with age – you no longer have to prove anything and can just relax and enjoy catching up with people who were largely responsible for the person you’ve become. I laughed and shared family pics with friends who knew me when – but every now and then I found myself looking over my shoulder for a face I’m not sure I’d recognize. In my mind and in my heart, he’s frozen in time, forever 19 and the one that got away.
Almost everyone has someone who haunts the high school hallways of their past. It could be an unrequited love, a first crush, love or heartbreak. Mine was most if not all of those – a boy who stole my innocence and my trust, so much so that over 30 years later I ponder the question “What if?”
Let me pause here to say I love my husband. Really. My online search has nothing to do with wanting to reignite some fantasy old flame; that would truly be a bridge to nowhere. No, it’s more about trying to understand the real nature of love and its ability to linger long after a relationship dies. And it’s a desire to merge fantasy with reality; because this boy in my memory is not 19. He’s nearly 51, his lean teenage body undoubtedly gone soft around the middle, the hair I tangled my fingers through grown thin and frosted with gray. He is married or divorced. He is a father, possibly a grandfather. Like me, he’s celebrated successes and setbacks. And I realize (though I find it hard to believe) he may not even remember me.
The lesson here, if you believe things happen or don’t for a reason, is that some things from your past are better left to memory.
I’ll let you know if I find him.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Cougar Country
Some of you have complained about my lack of entries of late. Truth be told, the freelance writing biz put a squeeze on the budget and I’m back in the working mom world at a 9-to-5. Which leaves precious little time for blogging...but here we go.
I was minding my business at Trader Joe’s when a young male clerk started chatting me up. Since everyone at Traders is clearly delighted to be working there and usually chats everybody up, I thought nothing of it. But as I gathered my bags full of nitrate-free turkey bacon and two buck chuck, the following comment from a fellow TJ’s employee rang loudly in my ears: “Joey sure likes the cougars!”
I paused. I turned. I pretended not to hear the good natured laughter aimed at Joey, and I presumed, me. As I left the store I honestly could not decide whether I was flattered, insulted, or both. For those of you not up to speed on the new definition of another word for a California mountain lion, a cougar is a “Hot, 40-something female on the prowl for younger men.”
Hot? Me?? I clean up pretty good but that particular day I was looking anything but hot or on the prowl. Still, I have to admit as I pondered the incident and relayed it to my amused 50-something husband, I was at least flattered to be noticed. As a mom, I don’t often feel especially sexy, so being singled out by a man half my age gave my ego a much needed boost. But here’s the rub: I’m not sure sexy is the look I’m aiming for at 48 ½.
Let’s consider Cloris Leachman. I don’t watch Dancing With the Stars, but I know millions of people saw her shimmy and shake her bodacious 82-year old ta-ta’s in the faces of a nearly speechless panel of judges for several weeks before she was booted off. And while she garnered a fair amount of praise for her hutszpa, I’m not aspiring to be an octogenarian who looks good enough to dance on reality TV. Is being Botox-ed, artificially bronzed and harnessed into a Miracle Bra what passes for aging gracefully these days?
I started working out with a trainer last week. Spending eight hour days in a cubicle does nothing for a girl’s rear view, and I’m not willing to concede defeat to middle age spread just yet. So I’m on the elliptical machine and upon learning my age, my trainer, this muscle-bound boy of about 22 exclaims “Wow – you look good!” A few minutes later as I was laboring over crunches he pronounced, “Just think, you’re gonna be a smokin’ hot grandma!”
Uh-huh. If you’re like me the terms “smokin hot” and “grandma” used together creep you out. Because where I come from, grandmas wear house dresses and support hose and offer the plush comfort of a soft lap (not rock hard abs) to sink into. So I guess what I need to figure out is what aging gracefully means for me. I’m not planning to let myself go (hey, I am working out with a trainer). But I don’t want to become so obsessed with looking young that I end up being one of those women who makes heads turn for all the wrong reasons – face lift gone bad, boob job gone south.
For now, I’ll content myself with enticing my unsuspecting prey in the organic vegetable isle at Trader Joe’s. After all, I’m not a grandma yet.
I was minding my business at Trader Joe’s when a young male clerk started chatting me up. Since everyone at Traders is clearly delighted to be working there and usually chats everybody up, I thought nothing of it. But as I gathered my bags full of nitrate-free turkey bacon and two buck chuck, the following comment from a fellow TJ’s employee rang loudly in my ears: “Joey sure likes the cougars!”
I paused. I turned. I pretended not to hear the good natured laughter aimed at Joey, and I presumed, me. As I left the store I honestly could not decide whether I was flattered, insulted, or both. For those of you not up to speed on the new definition of another word for a California mountain lion, a cougar is a “Hot, 40-something female on the prowl for younger men.”
Hot? Me?? I clean up pretty good but that particular day I was looking anything but hot or on the prowl. Still, I have to admit as I pondered the incident and relayed it to my amused 50-something husband, I was at least flattered to be noticed. As a mom, I don’t often feel especially sexy, so being singled out by a man half my age gave my ego a much needed boost. But here’s the rub: I’m not sure sexy is the look I’m aiming for at 48 ½.
Let’s consider Cloris Leachman. I don’t watch Dancing With the Stars, but I know millions of people saw her shimmy and shake her bodacious 82-year old ta-ta’s in the faces of a nearly speechless panel of judges for several weeks before she was booted off. And while she garnered a fair amount of praise for her hutszpa, I’m not aspiring to be an octogenarian who looks good enough to dance on reality TV. Is being Botox-ed, artificially bronzed and harnessed into a Miracle Bra what passes for aging gracefully these days?
I started working out with a trainer last week. Spending eight hour days in a cubicle does nothing for a girl’s rear view, and I’m not willing to concede defeat to middle age spread just yet. So I’m on the elliptical machine and upon learning my age, my trainer, this muscle-bound boy of about 22 exclaims “Wow – you look good!” A few minutes later as I was laboring over crunches he pronounced, “Just think, you’re gonna be a smokin’ hot grandma!”
Uh-huh. If you’re like me the terms “smokin hot” and “grandma” used together creep you out. Because where I come from, grandmas wear house dresses and support hose and offer the plush comfort of a soft lap (not rock hard abs) to sink into. So I guess what I need to figure out is what aging gracefully means for me. I’m not planning to let myself go (hey, I am working out with a trainer). But I don’t want to become so obsessed with looking young that I end up being one of those women who makes heads turn for all the wrong reasons – face lift gone bad, boob job gone south.
For now, I’ll content myself with enticing my unsuspecting prey in the organic vegetable isle at Trader Joe’s. After all, I’m not a grandma yet.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Can I have chips with that?
Apparently I’m part of what they call the sandwich generation, which Wikipedia defines as a group of people (mostly women) who simultaneously care for their aging parents and young children. Turns out Merriam-Webster officially added the term to its dictionary in July 2006, nearly six months after I learned that my dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. At the time, I was juggling the stresses of a full-time job, catering to the needs of a first grader and pre-schooler, and managing an occasional hook-up with my husband who was in grad school. Clearly, I didn’t have the time or energy to expand my parenting responsibilities, but as an only child, the as-yet-to-be-fully-defined duty rested squarely on my already slumping shoulders.
My first task was to relocate my parents closer to me, which required moving them out of the house they’d lived in for 50-plus years, the place I still thought of as “home.” We made the move quickly, intensely conscious of the sand seeping out of the hour glass of my dad’s memory; the sooner he changed environments, the less traumatic things would be. Thankfully, the move went smoothly. Mom and Dad settled nicely into their new community and made fast friends with their 55 and over neighbors. Having them nearby meant my kids were able to spend more time with their grandparents and I was feeling like the whole thing was no big deal after all. That’s when reality set in.
My mother and father cannot drive. Dad lost his license with his diagnoses and mom never learned, having come from a generation of women who derived security from their dependence on a man. Which means that, as is the case with my children, routine trips to doctors, dentists, grocery stores, haircuts, etc. require that someone eek out time from their already jam-packed schedule to accommodate. That someone is me. I learned pretty quickly that seniors need to see their doctors and dentists a lot. Because if a bridge can break once, it can break at least three times. A routine cold can turn quickly into bronchitis. When you are over 80 a prescription refill requires an office visit. And those are the needs. The wants like manicures, salon visits and a simple trip to Tar-Jaay all take time I do not have, pushing back deadlines I will not meet.
I am not whining (although I have on occasion). Mostly I am thankful for the slow progression of a disease that plays by no predictable rules. And I am thankful that I have a loving relationship with my parents that makes caring for them more privilege than obligation. But I would be lying if I didn’t say there are days I feel stretched thinner than the cellophane on the leftovers I will heat again for dinner tonight. There are times when I audibly sign when I see my mother’s caller ID on the phone, wondering what need she has that will once again throw the details of my day planner into a tailspin.
People a lot smarter than me figured out a long time ago that you really can’t do it all. But the truth is, I find myself sandwiched between the important and the urgent on almost a daily basis, unable to address one and leave the other undone. I’m no martyr. Many, even some of you reading this have it tougher than me. I’m just a mother and a daughter parenting from a double-duty position best described as a rock and a hard place. It’s where you can supposedly find out what you’re made of. I’m thinking turkey and Swiss on wheat. Gotta keep my strength up.
Comment on this Blog- do you or someone you know parent your elderly parents? What do you find most challenging? Most rewarding?
My first task was to relocate my parents closer to me, which required moving them out of the house they’d lived in for 50-plus years, the place I still thought of as “home.” We made the move quickly, intensely conscious of the sand seeping out of the hour glass of my dad’s memory; the sooner he changed environments, the less traumatic things would be. Thankfully, the move went smoothly. Mom and Dad settled nicely into their new community and made fast friends with their 55 and over neighbors. Having them nearby meant my kids were able to spend more time with their grandparents and I was feeling like the whole thing was no big deal after all. That’s when reality set in.
My mother and father cannot drive. Dad lost his license with his diagnoses and mom never learned, having come from a generation of women who derived security from their dependence on a man. Which means that, as is the case with my children, routine trips to doctors, dentists, grocery stores, haircuts, etc. require that someone eek out time from their already jam-packed schedule to accommodate. That someone is me. I learned pretty quickly that seniors need to see their doctors and dentists a lot. Because if a bridge can break once, it can break at least three times. A routine cold can turn quickly into bronchitis. When you are over 80 a prescription refill requires an office visit. And those are the needs. The wants like manicures, salon visits and a simple trip to Tar-Jaay all take time I do not have, pushing back deadlines I will not meet.
I am not whining (although I have on occasion). Mostly I am thankful for the slow progression of a disease that plays by no predictable rules. And I am thankful that I have a loving relationship with my parents that makes caring for them more privilege than obligation. But I would be lying if I didn’t say there are days I feel stretched thinner than the cellophane on the leftovers I will heat again for dinner tonight. There are times when I audibly sign when I see my mother’s caller ID on the phone, wondering what need she has that will once again throw the details of my day planner into a tailspin.
People a lot smarter than me figured out a long time ago that you really can’t do it all. But the truth is, I find myself sandwiched between the important and the urgent on almost a daily basis, unable to address one and leave the other undone. I’m no martyr. Many, even some of you reading this have it tougher than me. I’m just a mother and a daughter parenting from a double-duty position best described as a rock and a hard place. It’s where you can supposedly find out what you’re made of. I’m thinking turkey and Swiss on wheat. Gotta keep my strength up.
Comment on this Blog- do you or someone you know parent your elderly parents? What do you find most challenging? Most rewarding?
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