Take Two

Tink. Tink. Tink. 

Is this thing on?

Okay, that isn't a great similitude. A written blog doesn't actually equate to a microphone. 

Nevermind.

It's just that it's time to dust off the ole' blog (Oh boy...yet another metaphor) and start writing again. When I originally started this blog nearly 15 years ago(!) I did it as a creative outlet and a form of therapy. I was writing a doctoral dissertation, my elderly and very challenging mother was moving from Michigan to Colorado so I could look after her, and my children were all living at home as either young adults or teenagers. My days were full and I needed something creative to keep me grounded. Writing helped.

I maintained the blog consistently for a few years as I earned a PhD, cared for my mother (aka Mommie Dearest), who was the subject of many posts, and watched the world grow increasingly darker. At some point it felt like I couldn't keep my perspective very well and it slowed my writing. Six years ago I wrote my last post.  

But lately I've been feeling a tug in my spirit to write again. My life is dramatically different now. With my artist husband, Steve, I own a business, my children are all thriving adults with lives and homes of their own, and Mommie Dearest left us, reluctantly, last December at 95 years old. With the encouragement of a few friends and family who enjoyed reading the blog, I've decided to give it another go. My perspective is better and I find myself observing situations with that old, familiar, quirky bent. I considered starting an all new blog but decided to pick this one up where I left off. Hence the tink, tink. Which, as I've already established, doesn't really work.

Nevertheless, here I am, ready to write about the quirky, silly, sometimes melancholy, twists and turns of life. The intent is still my personal therapy but, if you happen to enjoy reading my posts, I invite you along for the ride. I have no idea where it will take us.

Let's see where this thing goes!

Connected by Crazy

I made a best friend the other day. Granted, the relationship only lasted about 30 seconds. Maybe it was a minute, I'm not sure. Nevertheless, for those few seconds we were the only two people in the world. The next thing I knew, she was gone.

Never underestimate the power of a chance encounter with a stranger.

(Source: Google Images) 

The day hadn't started off great. Well, actually the day started off just fine but shortly after waking it took a bit of a turn. As I was enjoying some early morning coffee and alone time, my peace was disrupted by a phone call from my beloved cat's veterinarian. The doctor apologized for calling so early but said that my Princess's blood chemistry revealed some fairly dire health concerns. My girl is quite sick and while we can't cure her, the vet felt the most compassionate thing we can do is make her comfortable so she feels better until the inevitable happens. That call and the subsequent trip to the veterinarian's office, with the unhappy cat in tow, changed the tone for my day. Although I'm not one for feeling sorry for myself, the truth is, I was decidedly sadder.

I couldn't just sit around and feel sad, though. There were things to do and life to be lived. I love my cat very much but she is, after all, a cat and not a human. I will do what I can to make her remaining days comfortable and when she dies I will grieve, but I've been through enough feline deaths and human deaths to know they aren't exactly the same. Life will go on and, in fact, on that particular day a lot of life needed to happen.

Anna was home for Thanksgiving break and she, Steve, and I set out to do a few errands. I needed to go to Costco. Of all things. Two days before Thanksgiving. Who in their right mind goes to Costco two days before Thanksgiving?  Apparently all of Denver.

And us.

The crowds were thick. Oodles of people were steering gigantic carts in front of others, cutting them off without warning, to grab a bite-sized sample of canned cinnamon rolls. People in motorized shopping carts weaved wildly through throngs of shoppers, as though they were being pursued in a high-speed police chase. Small children dawdled in the middle of the isle, dancing and singing to themselves while harried shoppers tried to navigate past them.

A typical day at Costco.

I wasn't overly bothered by all the mayhem. It comes with the territory. If you're gonna go to Costco two days before Thanksgiving, don't expect to shop alone. The problem wasn't the mass of humanity buying groceries, office supplies, and twerking Santa's. No, the problem was my very own darling husband who, for whatever reason, chose this time, this location, and this day to temporarily go insane.

I'm not entirely sure what was the actual problem. We were at the store to purchase food for an event he was attending. Right there, in the middle of Costco chaos, Steve's ability to make any decisions vanished. Along with losing decision making capabilities, he lost all capacity for hearing and considering my suggestions. Frustration, anger, and agitation all entered the scene as we stood, in the way of frantic shoppers, having a circular conversation about what to buy. Or not. Reasoning skills made a hasty, stage right exit. It went on and on and on. At one point Steve stepped away and Anna quietly said to me, "Is this weird, or is it just me?" My response...."So weird!"

I had no idea what was happening to Steve, but look, we all get nutty at times. I get it. He just happened to have chosen a very bad day and a very busy place. At some point in the ever deteriorating scene, he decided to purchase a pre-made Ceaser salad. Whew. We started making our way from the back of the store to the cash registers, navigating the human landmines grabbing samples like they had been deprived of food for days. When we finally got close enough to survey the lines and choose a lane to stand in, a man whom I'd never seen before in my life, sidled up next to me and said hello. I said hello back. He proceeded to stand there smiling at me like I should know whatever secret he held. I awkwardly smiled back.

OMG. Now what was happening??

Finally he said, "I see you have a salad there." Glancing into the cart I said, "Yes, I do." He proceeded to say, "I just heard on the news that there is an e coli outbreak and they are recalling ALL Romaine lettuce."  Seriously? We just spent 45 minutes in chaos deciding what to buy and now, just as we are about to pay for it you tell me it is contaminated?  I thanked the man for telling me, as Anna quickly looked up the information on Google and confirmed that he was right, the announcement had just been issued. Literally. While we were debating what to purchase, the CDC had put out a statement saying all Romaine lettuce was unsafe to eat. There hadn't even been time to pull Romaine from the store shelves yet. A defeated Steve muttered, "Well, I can't buy that now," and pulled the salad out of the cart to return it to the refrigerated shelves in the back of the store. Back to square one.

As we stood in the mass of humanity with endless lines to the cash register, I said aloud, "This is crazy." A woman about my age, maybe a little older, standing next to me, surveyed the crowd and offered, "Oh yes, isn't it?" I turned to her and gesturing to all the people said, "Oh, I didn't mean all this. This I can handle. I'm talking about my husband." A couple of seconds of silence hung in the air and then her eyes widened, she threw back her head and started laughing. Loudly. Her response sparked my own laughter and she grabbed my hands. There we stood, in a sea of harried Costco shoppers, two strangers, holding hands and laughing with abandon. Knowingly. Our souls connected.

We've all been there.

When our laughter finally slowed, she released my hands and off she went, immediately melting into the hundreds of people. Right then, right there. A stranger had changed the tone of my day.

My cat was still sick and my husband was still a temporary nut case, but in those few moments of laughter with a stranger, I knew it was all going to be okay. I'd deal with the cat issues as they came and my husband would eventually return to the sane, charming man he usually is. Spontaneous, unabashed laughter with a total stranger had been the release valve I needed.

Here's the thing. We forget how connected we are as humans. I didn't have to explain to my momentary buddy what had transpired with Steve. She just knew. Maybe not the details, but she knew. She had been there. That man who told me not to buy the salad cared enough to keep me from buying something potentially harmful. And that person who darted in front of me to get a tiny slice of ham, we had something in common too. Maybe not ham lust but...something. There is some experience or feeling we've both had that is a point of connection.

All it takes is a moment, a comment, or a small action to realize we are all in this together. Despite how it seems, there is more of love in this life than hate.

It is easy to get distracted by all the noise and fear and 'other-ing' bombarding us on the daily. Sometimes it just takes a burst of laughter with a stranger to remember.

We are all connected.

And our connection is love.

This is Pretty Normal, Actually

It is hard to know what is normal these days. But having a party at the end of October seems like a fairly normal thing to do. And, it is not fake news to anyone who knows me, that I love a party.

I wouldn't exactly define myself as a party girl. For one thing, I'm not a girl, and for another, I generally keep my wits about me when throwing a party. Yes, I give in to plenty of laughter and perhaps even some outrageous behavior, but that isn't due to the influence of alcohol. That's just how I act. Anyway, the point is, I love a party and can generally find any excuse to throw one. October was no exception.

Side note: My family has been given strict instructions that when I die they are to have a party in my honor. I don't want a sad, gloomy remembrance. They have been told to throw a party with lots of laughter, maybe some dancing, plenty of food, and an abundance of goofiness. So, if I die and you see my family doing the gloomy thing, you have my permission to 'mean mug' them the whole time. 

That said, I am very much alive at the moment and, in fact, one of the reasons I so enjoy a party is that it gathers people together in a spirit of joy and community and life celebration. I love the laughter and food and stories. There is a feeling of unity when friends gather to celebrate. Rarely does it matter what is being celebrated. What matters most is that we are together embracing life and shared humanity.

To that end, in October we had a witch party. I'm not entirely sure it was my idea to begin with. I honestly can't remember. It isn't at all unusual for my friends to decide they want to have a party and to ask if we can have it at my house. My friend, Debbie is the queen of theme parties so it may well have been her idea originally. A few years ago, at her behest, we had a 1960s themed Christmas Party after I inherited the silver aluminum Christmas tree from my childhood. The primary reason for that party was to drink martinis, dress my daughter as a young, pregnant woman smoking and drinking 1960s style, and to take photographs. Because that is normal. Right?

A Witch Party was all about dressing up and dancing. When I first put on my orange striped witch socks I declared it the happiest day of my life which, admittedly, might have been a little over the top but wearing witch socks was especially satisfying. Until they started cutting into my thighs. But hey, fashion is pain. Even for witches, apparently.

We make a pretty convincing couple of hags, don't we?

A gathering of costume clad friends and family obliged our request that they attend as witches and warlocks, except for a couple of people who stretched the definition. Nevertheless, they came dressed up and that was good enough for us! Anna's boyfriend had loaned her his cow costume and Steve wore it for a few minutes. He was stripped of his costume, however, when he claimed that he was a warlock whose spell had gone, 'udderly wrong'.

Nope. No more cow costume for you.

This was before he made his bad pun.

The bovine warlock did show up again later, however, when Parker opted to put it on, having been unsure what constituted warlock wear. Granted, witch clothing, in the form of black hats and striped socks, does seem easier to come by. We ended up with a cadre of witches and warlocks, with one gender confused cow, and a Star Trek guy. Because, that is normal. Right?

I love my people!

I got a little taken up by the whole thing in the days leading up to the party and, although she didn't attend, I gave Mommie Dearest a witch hat. She liked wearing it. She seemed to have an uncanny sense of belonging in it. She was pretty convincing when she pretended to cast a spell on me. Ever since then I have felt the urge to supply my mother with alcohol and men.

"You'll forever do my bidding!"

Of course I had to dress up the dog because...that is normal. Right? Sadie didn't seem nearly as pleased to wear it as my mother did. She also didn't seem nearly as threatening. I think she was imploring me to let the newts keep their eyes. Sadie is a very empathetic dog.

"Why me?"

Finally, I couldn't resist putting it on the cat too. He seemed least thrilled of anyone. He looks downright despondent about the whole thing. I'm pretty sure if there had been a magic wand around I'd be scurrying about as a mouse right now.

"This is so humiliating."

Anyway, my mother and pets aside, our witch party needs were met, for this year, as dear longtime friends and a couple of special new ones joined in the fun. We all gathered on our outdoor deck for a bit dancing with the warlocks on the sidelines, bewitched by our spectacular talent. Because, that is normal. Right?

In all, it was the perfect October evening gathering. Grown adults, dressed in costumes, dancing, and finding joy in the company of one another. Ironically, that really is what's normal. The current political debacle is decidedly not normal! The division, and culture wars, and lack of civility is NOT normal.

It also doesn't represent the majority of people. The majority of people are good, caring, and loving, with an abundance of humanity and bewilderment at the appalling condition of our country. I truly believe this. The majority of people are, indeed, normal.

So, a party with people we love, dressed up as mythical beings, feels pretty normal currently. All the witches and warlocks don't view our current cultural and political situation the same. And we don't have to. Because in the end, that isn't what matters. What matters is our shared humanity, our ability to see past our difference, and our mutual love for one another.

And striped socks. Those matter.

That is normal. Right?

The Resurrection of Mommie Dearest

I haven't written much about Mommie Dearest lately. I used to write stories about her quite regularly, but in the past couple of years her colors seemed to have faded out, dimming and greying, along with her short-term memory. She's become fairly bland. Fewer crazy antics. Less fixation on men and alcohol. More and more of her life color drained; leaving me with less and less storytelling fodder.

Or so I thought.

Turns out, she was just saving it all up for one giant color burst; a solar flare of crazy. Apparently she still has a whole spectrum of adventures just waiting to get out. Silly me. I thought we were past all that.

Last summer, after realizing that living independently in a retirement community was no longer serving Mommie Dearest well, my siblings and I made the decision to relocate her to assisted living. We found a charming house with a small number of residents, amid lovely tranquil trees, in a quiet community. Bliss.

With fewer residents she would receive more individualized care. A single room would provide her with less space to hoard junk mail. Laundry service would mean I didn't have to add laundress to my already full resume. It seemed perfect to us.

She hates it, of course. I regularly hear about how she has only one room, is bored, and all the people she lives with are old. Nevertheless, things had been going along uneventfully. No major medical dramas.  No unseemly relationships with Viagra popping geezers. No taxicab escapades to nearby bars.

(Pause here to reflect on the fact I'm referring to a nearly crippled, almost 89-year old woman.)

On Memorial Day, I was awakened at 5am by a telephone call from my mother. She said she had been watching television and had decided to go downstairs to dinner. When she went into the hallway, however, she found the lights off. She assumed that she had been left in the building alone. I explained that, actually, everyone was asleep, because it was 5 o'clock in the morning!  At 7am I received a call from a nurse who said my mother was very confused and thought it was 7 in the evening. This level of confusion means that my mom has a urinary tract infection so, it being a holiday, I took her to an emergency room.  Later that day she was admitted.

As I prepared to go to the hospital on Tuesday morning, I received a telephone call that, in all honesty, I couldn't have anticipated. When I answered, the voice on the other end of the line was Lynn, the wellness nurse at the assisted living facility. I knew my mother was safely in a hospital bed, complete with an alarm should she decide to get out of it alone, so I wasn't terribly concerned. After a few opening pleasantries, however, Lynn began to hem and haw, finally saying, "I don't exactly know how to discuss this with you." My mind did a quick scan of possible topics. Pregnancy? No, she's 88. STD? Possibly. Marijuana? Likely. I told her to just blurt it out.

It seems there has been a noticeable consumption of alcohol, which is kept at the facility for weekly Happy Hour, since the beginning of the year. Lynn had grown concerned that someone from the staff had a problem and was stealing it. The employee responsible for purchasing the alcohol had been reporting a significant increase in spending. They had been trying to figure out the mysterious disappearance with little success. Over time, however, the mystery began to resolve when they caught two different residents sneaking into the bar area of the facility late at night, after the staff had gone home and the resident caregiver had gone to bed, lifting entire bottles of unopened wine and liquor and taking them back to their rooms.

The mystery wasn't completely resolved, however, because although they had caught the thieves red-handed, they knew someone else had to be the ringleader. The staff felt strongly that the two thieves, both in advanced stages of dementia, had carried out their underhanded duties at the bidding of someone with greater mental acumen. Someone still able to conjure up such a plan, provide direction, and encourage their dark deeds. A mastermind. A mob boss.

A Mommie Dearest.

Turns out my mother, fancying herself some prohibition era vigilante or something, preying on the less cognitively advantaged, had convinced the two women to form an alcohol thievery ring.

I guess that's one way to relieve boredom.

(Source: Google Images)
This isn't my mother. But I'm pretty sure this is her attitude.

Mommie Dearest blew her own cover on Friday night when she was apparently taking her turn at the five-finger discount. The trouble is, by that time the alcohol had been moved to a staff member's office and locked up. My mother was caught opening cupboards in search of booze to lift. When confronted with the knowledge that 1) the bounty was no longer available and 2) she had been found out, Mommie Dearest became enraged.

On Memorial Day, while we sat in the hospital emergency room, staff at the assisted living facility searched my mother's room. There they found numerous bottles of red wine as well as Bailey's Irish cream. The rooms of the other thieves netted similar evidence.

At least she stole the good stuff.

My mother had kicked the empty bottles under her bed. There weren't any partially consumed bottles so, presumably, the trio finished bottles off in one sitting while having their regular 'nightcap.' The full ones were stashed in the closet, stuffed in shoes, and tucked under clothing in dresser drawers. She even stole a corkscrew. Given her serious arthritis, she couldn't have opened the bottles herself so in picking out her crew of bandits, she must have considered physical strength. She's nothing if not conniving.

While at the hospital I mentioned this turn of events to the physician who assessed my mom for symptoms of alcohol withdrawal. She doesn't appear to have them. Nor does she seem to be an alcoholic. It appears she simply stole from the bar for the thrill of it. I repeat. The thrill of it.

Her fun is over, however. In a charming little assisted living facility with Victorian era decorations and a warm, friendly staff, the bar honor system is no longer in play. The maintenance man has installed locks on all the cupboard doors to keep my mother's sticky fingers off the booze. Geepers. I feel so proud.

That whole thing about my mother's colors dimming, I'm not falling for that again. I might have been naive once, but not anymore. Those colors will be radiating in full force as long as she lives.

God help us all if she figures out how to con someone into installing a stripper pole.

All Together Now....Breathe

I practice a little yoga now and then. Not a lot, because I'm not very good at it. I tend to lose my focus, fall over, and bump into things. I try to do it when I need to, though. One of the things I like most about yoga is that it forces me to breathe. Granted, my autonomic breathing responses are in fine working condition, but yoga forces me to breathe deeply and intentionally, and to actually pay attention to what I otherwise do thousands of times a day. Maybe millions. I've never counted. Anyway, hard core yoga folks call it pranayama, but I call it good old deep breathing. Whatever. I just know it relaxes my body and mind.

It seems to me we need to take a big collective pranayama breath in the United States. The whole country. All together. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out.

(Source: Google Images)

What a time to be alive. I remind my children regularly that whatever they missed in Government class in high school, when they were goofing off, flirting, or thinking about something else, is being redeemed during this period of history.  Some day, when they are old, they can tell their kids or grandkids about this crazy, bumpy, turbulent ride through the not so friendly skies of divided.

As the cool kids say, "This shit cray!"

I had the good fortune to walk in the Women's March in Denver the day after Inauguration. It was a beautiful, crisp, Colorado day. I walked with my son and dear friend and 'communed' with the like-minded. As we made our way through the downtown streets, people thanked police officers, smiled at one another, chanted, and sang. Nobody lit a single thing on fire. Well, okay, we did have to wade through occasional clouds of pot smoke (we're in Denver after all!) so I guess something was being lit on fire. But no cars or buildings. I'm glad I did it. We marchers had fun doing something very serious.

I was told, by someone with an opposing view, that protesting is evil. I'm pretty sure it's just our Constitutional right. In addition to the march, I also write my members of Congress on a daily basis, not because I'm a big 'ole troublemaker, but because that is how my voice gets heard. There are plenty of people who didn't march and who likely write their members of Congress on a daily basis, saying the opposite things I say. It's okay. They can. That is what democracy is.

In these contentious, ugly-spirited days, it doesn't feel okay, however, for us to have differing opinions. There is so much vitriolic dogma and biting sarcasm on both sides, we're just talking over one another. How about some grace? A little dose of empathy? Opinions can be expressed without slander. It might do us all good to remember and employ the seemingly ancient art of simply being polite.

After the Women's March, a friend asked me what it was about. His question appeared sincere and I gave him my answer. We didn't discuss it, but I assumed he at least heard me, even if he didn't agree. His question made me think that it would be interesting to post an offer on Facebook to talk with anyone who wanted to know why I chose to march.  I posted it. And not a soul asked. It's hard to know what to make of that. Maybe people are just tired of talking about it. Although based on the number of memes and articles both for and against the march, posted daily, I have to assume people are still talking. Or maybe they are much more interested in expressing their own opinion, than actually finding out about anyone else's. Possibly they are afraid I might say something that would make sense and it would challenge them to think about it.

This election has brought out the worst in America. But we can do better than this. I know we can.

Maybe it is time to start listening. Listening doesn't mean agreeing. It means being quiet long enough to hear the other person. It means trying to understand. Look, I feel strongly about our government today. The truth is, there are a lot of things I'm not ever going agree with. But maybe, if I listened to the heart of the person 'on the other side,' I could get at least understand. I'm probably still going to write my members of Congress on a daily basis. I may even march a few more times. It possible to do those things and listen.

Quite possibly, if we just took the time to stop our strident screaming, we might learn something from one another. We might grow. We might become better people. I'm all about freedom of speech but just because we can, doesn't mean we should. We could all do with a little more self-governing and a little less blasting.

No one is entirely correct in their opinion or ideology. I think the problem is, we are all scared. Scared we won't be heard. Scared for our children, our grandchildren, our future. The truth is, both sides are scared. I know it feels like life or death for some. And, in fact, I believe it is. We simply cannot keep up this constant stress, tension, and fighting, We are all getting tired, and worn down, and increasingly mentally ill.

Let's stop.

I'm not suggesting complacency. Not at all. I'll be fighting for what I believe in like I've never fought before. And I hope people who are of a different mindset will fight for what they believe in too. How about if we just fight the issues and stop fighting each other. We are not each other's enemy. We are better than this. Remember that whole, 'house divided' thing? Yeah. I'm pretty sure it is true.

Be involved. Be active. But please...be kinder.

I suggest the country do a little collective yoga. Breathe in. Hold it. Breathe out. Sure, we might lose our focus, fall over, and bump into each other sometimes. But if we do, let's take a pranayama breath, start over, and find a place of grace.

Required Reading for the Betterment of Society

I'm convinced book people should take over the world.

I've actually put a lot of time into thinking about this. For years I have maintained that if I were a dictator, citizens under my rule would have mandatory reading for the betterment of society. The assigned readings wouldn't be dense or obscure, they would be accessible to as many in the population as possible. I'd offer optional readings for different levels and, of course, everyone would be encouraged to do as much 'free-will' reading as possible. Literature wouldn't come from just one genre and required reading for the betterment of society would include both fiction and non-fiction. For those with reading disabilities or vision issues, audio books would be available. I'd be a benevolent dictator, after all.

Think about it. There would be no more mind-numbing reality TV. Nobody would care what inane people with no real talent were doing. They'd be too busy reading. Intelligence reducing twenty-four hour news cycles would be obsolete. People wouldn't have time to listen to factless drivel. It would be a calmer, gentler, smarter, quieter period in which people expanded their minds, increased their compassion, and generally exercised civility. Society would be better, I'm sure.

Because book people are nice.

Okay, I may be speaking in gross generalities here but I'm pretty sure I'm on to something. I've figured it out after years of observing book people at a local library annual used book sale. The sale is huge. Books are everywhere. Readers flock to the sale en masse.

(Source: Google Images)

Table after table is lined with books of every type. Fiction. Non-fiction. Classics. Mysteries. Cookbooks. Children's literature. It is all there. Some books are older. Some are newer. Some are foreign. Some are simple. Some are complex. Some contain hate. Some contain love. And they all mingle together with only loose classifications. It isn't unusual to find a love story set in Burma amid the travel books, or a romance novel cozied up to the cookbooks. Their links may be loose, but somehow they find themselves together co-existing under the general 'species,' books.

At the book sale, shoppers browse up and down the rows with little personal space, but an abundance of patience. If someone lingers in a particular area, the other browsers simply say, excuse me, and go around. I've never heard anyone yell. Never seen anyone push. Not even an exasperated sigh. Occasionally, a shopper will pick up a book by a particular author only to have the stranger standing next to them ask if they have read anything else by that writer. If the answer is no, they recommend one. If the answer is yes, they briefly discuss the merits of the tome. Sometimes there are outbursts of joy when a particular book finds its reader. Sometimes shoppers search for a copy of a much desired book for another bibliophile they just met. Their links may be loose, but somehow they find themselves co-existing under the general species,'reader.'

Mystery readers don't disparage those who immerse themselves in historical fiction. Readers who hang out in the science section never mock the ones who love classics. It's a caring place; the book sale. The books are peaceful. The patrons are kind. Differences abounds. But then, so does respect. Maybe we should all consider behaving like book people in our regular, everyday lives, regardless of our religious beliefs, racial differences, or political dispositions. Maybe we should show more compassion. More patience. More kindness.

Because our links may be loose, but somehow we find ourselves co-existing under the general species, 'human.'

Mommie Dearest's Whole New World

Heed my advice. Do not give a person with dementia a cell phone programmed to speed dial your number at the push of one button. If you do, it is entirely possible that every day the person with dementia will discover, anew, they can call you in an instant. Chances are, they will use this new found skill over and over and over. All day. Every day.

This advice was born of my own ill conceived idea to purchase a cell phone for Mommie Dearest so she could have it at the assisted living facility where we recently moved her. 

Live and learn.

For some time now I have been thinking that we needed to move my mom to a higher level of care. Her worsening dementia was making it hard to keep her in an independent living situation. Granted, the facility she was living in was for senior citizens but it was for those who could largely care for themselves. When we moved her to Colorado she was fairly capable of doing so, but over time her independence became more and more of a burden. I knew something needed to change.

During a recent visit with my siblings we decided to pursue an appropriate assisted living facility for our mom. We visited a few facilities and found the place we felt would be just perfect for Mommie Dearest. It had all of the important amenities: staff to administer daily medications, a cook to prepare and serve meals, weekly happy hour with wine. Men.

Or so I thought.

In reality the men aren't very plentiful in this new living arrangement. I was deceived by the man who lives across the hall from my mother, thinking he was representative of a larger male population. Turns out he is one of only two. Honestly though, It doesn't seem to matter that much.  Mommie Dearest has lost some of her zeal for wooing men. It was one of the first signs things were digressing. It was as if she forgot that she liked to be the center of all male attention. She even started forgetting to go to happy hour. Malaise about wooing men and not registering opportunities to guzzle boxed wine from a Styrofoam cup? These were bad signs. 

We took our mom to visit the new residence and she was surprisingly amenable to the idea. She gave it a slightly crooked, arthritic thumbs up and I set a plan in motion.  It all seemed remarkably easy. Until it wasn't. But that's the way it is with Mommie Dearest. One minute things are going along just fine and the next minute we've entered a whole new reality and I haven't recognized the switch. Admittedly, I have a little trouble keeping up.   

Within days of my giving notice that she would be moving out of the independent living facility, staff started mentioning that my mother was telling them she rescinded the notice. I got daily phone calls from her saying that she was not moving and that was that. She dug her heels in. Truth be told, however, she didn't dig very far or fight very hard. In the end, she moved with very little kicking and screaming. Either she forgot she likes to make things as difficult for me as possible or, maybe, like chasing men, she just doesn't have the stamina anymore. I'm not sure.

She's in her new place now, no longer in a two-room apartment but in her own bedroom within a large house. She gets loving care and reminders, all day long, to do the important things like eat lunch and play Bingo. She mentions the sparse male population regularly but it is seemingly more out of habit than any real desire. She doesn't appear to even remember where she lived just days ago. 

I put sticky note reminders all around her room, including one that tells her to press 2 on her cell phone if she wants to call me. Every day she discovers how to call me again. It's a perpetual surprise.

Sometimes I feel guilty that I like this simple-minded Mommie Dearest with her Swiss cheese memory a little better than the narcissistic, mean-spirited woman who raised me. Then I remind myself that guilt is a useless emotion. Feel what you feel. Besides, being with my mom helps with my never ending quest for life balance. Watching her slowly drift away reminds me that everything in life is a cycle. Change is inevitable and constant. Every day I get older. We all do. That's the way it is supposed to be. Holding on to youth is impossible, so I'm learning to embrace aging. Sort of. Most days.

Until my grey roots start showing.

For the most part, I'm thankful for this phase of life with my mother. She, unintentionally, reminds me to live intentionally, and breathe in the life I've been given. I appreciate the lesson. It is good to remember that the problems I'm solving at work, the relationship challenges I'm navigating at home, or the finances that will seemingly never be enough to retire with, are all fleeting. All that truly matters is how I live in the here and now.

I live with intention today, because at some point I too might be discovering the magic of speed dial. All day. Every day.