The Real-Live-Honest-to-Goodness-All-Out-No-Holes-Barred No-Pity Party

I was watching the morning news and saw something about a couple visiting Hawaii.   I was already grumpy, lacking sleep, and feeling trapped by the continuous need to watch and care for my mother.  It had been a bad week filled with episodes requiring clean ups, corrections, and out-of-the-ordinary attention.  I was tired and fed up.  I could feel it building inside of me, the frustration, the trapped feeling that was more and more prevalent.  Regardless of how much I hated the fact that I was being impatient and irrational, I couldn't seem to snap out of it. So when the photos of Hawaii flashed on the TV screen I burst into tears.  I immediately thought back to better times, to vacations of yesteryear, to personal freedom to get away when I needed a break from the day-to-day activities.

Oh poor me!  Boo Hoo.

In fairness, it has been over two years of non-stop, cannot escape, no vacations, no fun-filled nights away, no date nights without worrying about getting home in time to pay the sitter, and of boring days of repetitive activity watching a woman who engages in constant fidgeting, mindless wandering, and TV watching.

So, today, as I felt like I might murder someone if I didn't do something...and do something fast, I walked outside.  I walked around the driveway trying to burn off a little anger.  I was deep in the throws of a pity-party.  I began to cry as I walked in a circle on the hot pavement. The day was already warm but a cool breeze blew on my face and I thought of Hawaii...how the trade winds relieved the heat and humidity.  Oh how I wished that I could be there.  As I was wallowing in my misery something happened.  My mind shifted.  I decided that I would throw a party., location -- Hawaii!  I would be the guest of honor.  I immediately began planning.  Food would include my favorite guilty pleasures: Licorice Twizzlers, Fried Chicken, and ice cream, French Fries, Pizza, watermelon, potato chips, and chocolate...lots and lots of chocolate.  I would drink Mai Tai cocktails, and play Luau music.  (This of course was all in my imagination since my party was in my head.) I moved my center of operations out to the screened porch, donned a Hawaiin Lei,  sprayed myself with Plumeria essential oil and sat back on a rocking chair with eyes closed.  Immediately I was boarding an airplane to Hawaii.  Within seconds I was lying on the beach listening to the waves breaking on the sand, feeling the caress of island trade winds. I heard laughter nearby and smelled the unmistakable coconut butter fragrance of sun-tan lotions long ago eschewed for their lack of protection against the sun's harmful rays.  I sipped an icy Mai Tai out of a bottomless frosted glass.  The sugar and alcohol did not give me heartburn.  I didn't get bloated, full or drunk.  I ate my fried chicken to my heart's content savoring the salt, the crispy crust, the deep-fried batter without feeling like I was instantly retaining a gallon of water.  I ate all of the potato chips I could cram into my mouth without worrying about clogged arteries.  I chomped on Twizzlers without concern over lost fillings or ruined crowns.  I ate the watermelon, fries, and pizza assured that I was rounding out the healthy food groups.  The chocolate?  Well, hey...because it's, uh, CHOCOLATE! The medical benefits alone are enormous.

The party continued all day. The sun was setting and some surfers came by asking if I wanted to join them at their bonfire.  We sat singing songs and listening to the fading sounds of lazy gulls as they dove for their evening meals before the sun dipped into the horizon.  Someone suggested a Limbo contest and we bent and twisted our bodies to the strains of a familiar dance tune.  I was surprisingly limber and won the contest.  As the reigning Limbo Queen I was lifted onto the shoulders of two buff young Adonises who paraded me around the bonfire.  Everyone cheered.  When I was finally returned to my chaise, I adjusted my size 5 bikini and sat down to more cocktails, laughter and music.  This was a great party.  In fact, throwing a pity-party was a fantastic idea.

It was 10:30 in the morning.  I had spent the last 15 minutes wallowing in non-pity, self-indulgent make-believe and I felt great.  Whereas 15 minutes earlier I had worried about my mind holding dark and frightening thoughts, I now marveled at the power of mental escape.  I highly recommend a real-live-honest-to-goodness-all-out-no-holes-barred No-Pity Party for those of you who want to indulge in a little self-pity every so often!

Therapy Pet? Nope.

I might have mentioned that my mother has become a warrior when it comes to our son's girlfriend's cat, Sydney.  Mom sees that cat and panics.  "Get that cat away!" she yells.  "Don't let it into my room!"  She, who is usually a sweet and mild mannered woman turns into a vigilante saying things like, "I'm gonna shoot that cat!"  Whoa...Mom!  What's the deal with that?!

Well...now our dog, Kira has taken up the cry.  She and my mother have united on their mission to rid our house of Christina's cat. (Mind you, Sydney has historically remained in her apartment behind closed doors and honors the house rules.)

Mom loves Kira.  Mom and Kira bond in some unspoken way and when Kira hears Sydney meow on the other side of the door she runs to Grandma for attention.  Mom complies with a scratch behind the ears while Kira gives a satisfied smile.

I don't want to make it seem like the poor little kitty is a saint though.  There are reasons that Kira is terrorized by the cat and who knows, maybe there are reasons for my mother's dislike of Sydney as well.  I know that Sydney, upon meeting Kira, attacked her with hisses and slaps to the snout.  Kira, who is at least four times larger was offended by this behavior and ran from Sydney back downstairs finding a sympathetic adult who might protect her from the psychopath upstairs.  Grandma placed her hand on Kira's head and scratched softly thus calming and reassuring Kira that today she would not be eaten by the 'Clawed Aggressor'.

The other night, Christina and Bill were visiting from their apartment and accidentally left the door open.  It was late.  Mom was asleep in her room.  Skip had also gone to sleep.  Bill and Christina were sitting with me on the screened porch when Kira came running outside in a panic.  She looked around wildly to see who might assist.  "What's the matter, Kira?" I asked.  I ignored her.  She left.  A few minutes later she returned; this time Skip was following.  He looked sleepy and announced that she woke him up jamming her snout in his face and pushing on him until he got out of bed.
"I guess she needs to go out," he told us.

Kira refused to go out and Skip grew impatient, yelled at her and returned to bed.  A few minutes later Kira repeated the same behavior. This time Skip was angry.  He insisted that she go out with him and 'do her thing' but when they returned he reported that she had not done anything but pull at him to return to the porch where she remained pushed up against me.  Skip was about to return to the bedroom when he heard the unmistakable meow.  It was coming from our dining room.  Sydney had escaped and was in our house!  THAT'S what Kira was trying to tell us.  There was no Grandma to provide loving support and the rest of us were ignoring her!

They say that animals are great therapy for the elderly but I submit that it is the other way around in our home.  Furthermore, certain animals (such as cats who obviously visit my mother at night and threaten to sleep in her bed no doubt) are the antithesis of therapy pets.  Just ask my mother and my dog.  According to them we are under siege and there's no one paying any attention.  In fact, if my mother awoke at night calling that there was something in her room we might ignore her assuming that it was her dementia.  (It causes hallucinations.)

I have a feeling that if given an opportunity my mother would take care of this, ehem, 'problem' Mobster style.  Yep, Sydney, if left to my mother and with complete support of our dog, you could be taking a long walk on a short pier!

Mother's Day - a time to reflect

Another Mother's Day encourages me to reflect on being a mother. Of all of the human experiences I cannot think of another thing more gratifying or more instinctive than motherhood.  Oh, I am not ignoring the difficulties, the hardships, the frustrations.  I include those in my thoughts of the overall undertaking of raising an infant to adulthood, of bringing life and sustaining life.  Most of us glorify and sweep the rest under the rug when we extol the virtues of Motherhood.  Nope.  I am not going to ignore that part of it.  There is plenty of stuff that just plain sucks: those times when you are not feeling well and then the kids get sick and you have to drag yourself out of bed to take care of them too.   The teenage years are hardly a walk in the park: the discipline, the yelling, rebelling.  UGH!  But the light at the end of the tunnel is always there, and oh how we cry when we see our little ones grow up and leave the nest!  When we no longer have babies, we substitute puppies and kittens; the urge for motherhood, for nurturing is so strong within us.  We turn to mush around babies of any kind.  Motherhood is strong within us even when we are unrelated.  A child's tears -- any child's tears brings that maternal response.  We want to care, to assist, to assuage the hurt.  Oh mothers!  How we are programmed from birth to death.  

We females are indeed amazing.  Okay, maybe there are a few bad apples but overall we are to be congratulated on getting it right.  (Oh, and  I pay no attention to the deadbeats on shows like Doctor Phil.  Honestly I have no idea where he finds them).  All in all we are a marvelous sorority of caring, loving individuals.  

So, on Mother's Day allow me to brag a little.  I raised two wonderful adults.  I am truly happy with the results even if neither of them listened to me about becoming multi-millionaires so that they could support me in my old age.  No.  I feel satisfied with the end product: they have not disappointed.  They write beautiful sentiments on cards that make me blubber like an idiot, they make me laugh, they do nice things that surprise and thrill me.  I feel their gratitude and it warms me through and through.  When they ask me to make a "Mommy Salad" I know that they are nostalgic for my cooking, when they sit around and make fun of the way I do something I know that their teasing is loving.  It is like I used to be with my mother.  I can't do it now of course because she is old and has Alzheimer's.  Now, I have only the memories of who she used to be and the gratitude I have for what she did to raise me -- those sacrifices she made, the time she devoted, and the care she took.  I see it now, the circle of life...child to mother to childlike mother.   I am glad that I was able to show her my gratitude while she still understood.  Happy Mother's Day, Mom.  Happy Mother's Day Me.  Happy Mother's Day Children.  Happy Mother's Day  All!

Mint Juleps for Grandma

I am a writer.  I write constantly.  Right now I am working on a supernatural thriller.  Oh...and taking care of Mom.  So here I sit writing away with Mom sitting next to me in her Alzheimer's stupor (as I so disrespectfully call it) watching Dr. Phil.  I am distracted by a teen runaway being confronted by her parents.  Dr. Phil dispenses his advice as my mother stares. I try to return to my writing but must now recreate the mood.  Okay, I'm back into it again. Suddenly Mom comes alive remarking that the girl's hair is a mess.  "Someone should talk to her about how she appears on TV."

"She's a runaway, Mom.  She's been living on the streets," I explain.

"Well if she fixed her hair she would look better!"

ARGH!  I go back to my writing trying to ignore what is happening on TV and my mother's comments.

Mom continues to talk.  "She should be embarrassed." Later she adds that people have no common sense.  I don't even ask what that particular comment means.

When Dr. Phil finishes, Mom is up like a shot and practically running to the kitchen counter like Pavlov's dogs.  The closing music is a signal that lunch is ready; only, it isn't.  I look up and abandon my writing.  I go to the counter to tell her, "Mom, it's not time to eat yet.  I haven't even started lunch."

"What?  I can't hear you," she replies.

"I SAID LUNCH ISN'T READY."

Mom's selective hearing kicks in.   "Lunch?  Yes thank you."

"No lunch.  Not yet. I haven't even started it yet."

"Huh?"  She cups her hand to her ear in that universal gesture that says, 'speak louder.'

"NO LUNCH!  GO AWAY!"

"What?"

I throw my arms up in the air and begin making her lunch.  It's no use telling her anything else.  She sits practically panting and waiting for the sandwich.  I decide to make her favorite -- peanut butter and jelly.  She has no idea what she's eating when I serve it to her.  I ask her if she likes it and she replies, "It's delicious!"

"What is it?" I ask her.

"Um...uh...it's a sandwich."

"Yes, but what kind of sandwich?"

She thinks for a long time and takes two more bites.  She has now forgotten the question but like a Pit Bull I hang on and won't let go.  "What is it?" I ask again.  Mom doesn't respond. I finally give up and tell her.  "It's peanut butter and jelly."

"Ohhh," she says.  "I've never had that before."

The other night I made her a chicken pot pie, some asparagus, and put cottage cheese on the plate.  She didn't know (or like) what she was tasting, got up and walked away.  "Aren't you hungry?" I asked.

"No.  I'm full."

"But you only had a couple of bites."

"Oh?"  She looked down at the plate and shook her head.  "I'm really full."

I insisted that she have a couple more bites before leaving.  She complied taking a taste of the pie but then turned her nose up to the other stuff.  I went and got some sweet apricot preserves, mixed them into the cottage cheese and suddenly she devoured it with gusto.  Sadly she also mixed the asparagus and the chicken pot pie in with the cottage cheese and apricot preserves.  I walked away unable to watch.

* * * *

It is Kentucky Derby Day and Skip and I are making Mint Juleps.  "Hey Mom," I yell from three feet away (she's really hard of hearing.)  "Do you want a Mint Julep?" I joke.

"SURE!"  she answers enthusiastically.

I ask her if she knows what that is and she reports, "It's some kind of drink.  I love them!"

Hmmm.  Dare I?  She takes no medication so what's the harm?  I fix one for her.  I dilute hers with a little water and give it to her with a straw.  She sucks it down like a Hoover before I have finished pouring Skip's and mine.  We nurse ours along for 45 minutes.  Mom sits quietly watching the Derby licking her lips and smiling.  

EXCELSIOR! I think that I have discovered the secret of writing uninterrupted.  Just kidding of course but oh how tempting.