Being the gourmet cook that I am, I choose my olive oil very carefully.
It took a good five minutes to make the selection at Payless (grocery store, not shoe store) last week. I had two stringent criteria: 1. It had to be a small bottle so I could use it all before it goes rancid, 2. The price had to be reasonable as far as olive oils go. However, many bottles fit those requirements, so I made my final decision based on bottle appeal: I chose the prettiest bottle.
Last night I opened that lovely little bottle of Colavita Extra Virgin Olive Oil and carefully dumped a bunch of it into the frying pan. Sunday night's gourmet dinner involved precooked Wild Alaskan Salmon Patties, which I am pan frying. Things were a poppin’ and a sizzlin’ and almost a smokin’ before I thought to turn the heat from high to low.
For that extra variety that is a hallmark of gourmet cooking, at the last minute I tossed in the leftover breaded chicken patty from the deli. Along with our pan-fried protein, we had fresh-boiled green beans from the garden and leftover salads from the deli.
Mom enjoyed her usual heated-up cup of Kirkland Cafe Frappe while John sipped his four ounces of cheap strawberry wine and I threw back my four ounces of sweet Riesling.
This lovely dinner came together quite effortlessly, unlike my labor-intensive cooking of years ago when everything was beans and brown rice. I had a lentil burger recipe to die for, but somehow everyone survived.
*If you take me seriously, there is something seriously wrong.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Back to Normal
No sense in sitting around and worrying about Mom. Not 24 hours after her allergic reaction, she’s back to normal. My first clue, just a few minutes ago, was her delivery of the old toaster oven from the shop (where I had retired it months ago) to our house. Her goal is for me to give it to my church rummage sale. (It’s a donation I wouldn’t make even if my church had a rummage sale. I have my doubts about electrical appliances over the quarter century mark.) But rather than have the greasy old oven sit on my recliner where she deposited it, I put it out in the trunk of my car. Here’s the secret: this Wednesday evening on my way to choir, when the trash can is sitting roadside, I am going to deposit the toaster oven in the can. With any luck, Mom won’t find it before Thursday morning when the trash is picked up.
Right now she is driving around our property in her golf cart. It seems that Benadryl around the clock does not slow her down. Of course, she had her morning dose of prednisone, which might be why she’s tearing up the turf now.
I myself require much more than prednisone to get me going full speed. . . . Let me amend that statement. Years ago, on prednisone for some forgotten ailment during spring finals week, I was up in the middle of the night writing notes to each of my students.
Today I am still rather worn out from yesterday’s ER visit. And the rainy, cool weather encourages napping. But with the grand hope of sleeping all night while Mom prowls the house, I’m valiantly fighting sleep at this very moment by writing something that may put you to sleep. Let’s just say that life is back to normal.
Right now she is driving around our property in her golf cart. It seems that Benadryl around the clock does not slow her down. Of course, she had her morning dose of prednisone, which might be why she’s tearing up the turf now.
I myself require much more than prednisone to get me going full speed. . . . Let me amend that statement. Years ago, on prednisone for some forgotten ailment during spring finals week, I was up in the middle of the night writing notes to each of my students.
Today I am still rather worn out from yesterday’s ER visit. And the rainy, cool weather encourages napping. But with the grand hope of sleeping all night while Mom prowls the house, I’m valiantly fighting sleep at this very moment by writing something that may put you to sleep. Let’s just say that life is back to normal.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Ant Attack
Did I say something in the last blog about Mom being safe? Hah.
She came running in the house about 3:15 yelling, “Ants!” An hour later we were on the way to the emergency room.
After her dash into the shower, her left ankle was fire engine red and exquisitely painful to the touch. Her right ankle had a red patch too, as did the back of her right hand.
I missed the initial stir she made in the hospital: upon her insistence, I dropped her at the door and then parked. In the two minutes it took me to get to the waiting room, she was already in a wheelchair ready to go back to ER. I guess there is nothing quite like a 96-pound, 83-year-old woman rushing into the hospital in her deerskin slippers and hollering about pain to motivate health care personnel.
After the initial attention from nurse and doctor with a healthy dose of lidocaine ointment, we waited. Mom’s pain was evident by her exclamations and jerks and twitches. What seemed an eternity later--but which probably was within the half hour-- came the Percocet. No relief, and I could see swelling start around her ankles. Then came the handful of pills: a steroid, Benadryl, and Pepcid. Another lengthy waiting period followed in which Mom became increasingly agitated and even used that word to describe herself to the doctor, who suggested Atavan (an anti-anxiety medication). While we were waiting for the Atavan, the pain pill gradually kicked in and Mom became more relaxed. Then after the Atavan, we waited for her prescriptions and discharge from ER, and I watched her gradually get a little “drunk” from the medications: relaxed but restless.
So we are home now, just under four hours after we left. We have prescriptions to fill tomorrow and a lengthy list of things to watch out for as pertain to allergic reactions. I took Mom over to John’s to watch a bit of TV, and he will bring her back over in a little while. Though she is much more comfortable than she was four hours ago, her ankles and hand itch, her skin is tender, and she still gets little jolts of pain. Plus, she keeps forgetting what happened.
As a matter of fact, I listened to her memory evolve in the ER. First, she thought it was nettle, and then I told the health care professionals that she came in the house hollering “Ants!” (Of course, it could have been ground hornets.) She started out with not remembering where she was when she got bitten, to saying it was by the road, to explaining it was by the driveway, to telling how she had seen a bunch of ants on the ground and decided to walk through them, to running through a swarm of ants, to them attacking her. And then she came back to the nettle story.
Part of the discharge instructions were to NOT soak or shower in hot water this week, because heat worsens the allergic reaction. Remember what Mom’s first response was this afternoon? No wonder her ankles were fire engine red. Now the question is if I can keep her out of hot water all week.
She came running in the house about 3:15 yelling, “Ants!” An hour later we were on the way to the emergency room.
After her dash into the shower, her left ankle was fire engine red and exquisitely painful to the touch. Her right ankle had a red patch too, as did the back of her right hand.
I missed the initial stir she made in the hospital: upon her insistence, I dropped her at the door and then parked. In the two minutes it took me to get to the waiting room, she was already in a wheelchair ready to go back to ER. I guess there is nothing quite like a 96-pound, 83-year-old woman rushing into the hospital in her deerskin slippers and hollering about pain to motivate health care personnel.
After the initial attention from nurse and doctor with a healthy dose of lidocaine ointment, we waited. Mom’s pain was evident by her exclamations and jerks and twitches. What seemed an eternity later--but which probably was within the half hour-- came the Percocet. No relief, and I could see swelling start around her ankles. Then came the handful of pills: a steroid, Benadryl, and Pepcid. Another lengthy waiting period followed in which Mom became increasingly agitated and even used that word to describe herself to the doctor, who suggested Atavan (an anti-anxiety medication). While we were waiting for the Atavan, the pain pill gradually kicked in and Mom became more relaxed. Then after the Atavan, we waited for her prescriptions and discharge from ER, and I watched her gradually get a little “drunk” from the medications: relaxed but restless.
So we are home now, just under four hours after we left. We have prescriptions to fill tomorrow and a lengthy list of things to watch out for as pertain to allergic reactions. I took Mom over to John’s to watch a bit of TV, and he will bring her back over in a little while. Though she is much more comfortable than she was four hours ago, her ankles and hand itch, her skin is tender, and she still gets little jolts of pain. Plus, she keeps forgetting what happened.
As a matter of fact, I listened to her memory evolve in the ER. First, she thought it was nettle, and then I told the health care professionals that she came in the house hollering “Ants!” (Of course, it could have been ground hornets.) She started out with not remembering where she was when she got bitten, to saying it was by the road, to explaining it was by the driveway, to telling how she had seen a bunch of ants on the ground and decided to walk through them, to running through a swarm of ants, to them attacking her. And then she came back to the nettle story.
Part of the discharge instructions were to NOT soak or shower in hot water this week, because heat worsens the allergic reaction. Remember what Mom’s first response was this afternoon? No wonder her ankles were fire engine red. Now the question is if I can keep her out of hot water all week.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Wandering
We are closer to what could be called wandering.
Mom is happy as long as she has work to do. Much of that work now involves taking things to other locations: the dirty laundry to the shop office, the vegetable leavings to the compost bin, the trash to the trash can. She is happiest when she can do those deliveries with her golf cart.
I have become so accustomed to seeing Mom toodle around on our property that golf carts on golf courses look out of place to me. Golf carts are for hauling laundry and brush, right?
But back to wandering. Mom’s deliveries are rather convoluted these days. Sometimes it bothers her that she can’t remember what she is doing. Other times she doesn’t notice. This morning, for instance.
She had dirty laundry, clean cougar towels, and trash placed by the front door while she walked over to the shop to get her golf cart. Happily practicing my flutes, I gradually realized that she had been gone for at least 45 minutes. I found her in the shop office and the golf cart halfway backed out of the shop. She happily exclaimed that she was getting so much done, though I have no idea what it was. When she asked if there was anything else she could do, I redirected her to the house to pick up those original items for delivery.
She came back to the house and loaded up her golf cart to make her rounds. Later I will walk her course to check for misplaced items and open doors. Sometimes the dirty laundry ends up on top of John’s car or the clean laundry back in the shop office to be washed again. I’ve found glasses in the garden, a sock posing as a stick in Gunner’s mouth, and compost leavings in the refrigerator, to name a few. Yesterday it was unknown seed pods in a pan.
Often in the mornings I hear her rattling around in the kitchen. She reorganizes the silverware drawer, puts dishes away in unique places, and saves empty Kleenex boxes because they are so pretty. She is busy, she is happy, and she is safe wandering from one mission to the next in our houses and on our property.
Mom is happy as long as she has work to do. Much of that work now involves taking things to other locations: the dirty laundry to the shop office, the vegetable leavings to the compost bin, the trash to the trash can. She is happiest when she can do those deliveries with her golf cart.
I have become so accustomed to seeing Mom toodle around on our property that golf carts on golf courses look out of place to me. Golf carts are for hauling laundry and brush, right?
But back to wandering. Mom’s deliveries are rather convoluted these days. Sometimes it bothers her that she can’t remember what she is doing. Other times she doesn’t notice. This morning, for instance.
She had dirty laundry, clean cougar towels, and trash placed by the front door while she walked over to the shop to get her golf cart. Happily practicing my flutes, I gradually realized that she had been gone for at least 45 minutes. I found her in the shop office and the golf cart halfway backed out of the shop. She happily exclaimed that she was getting so much done, though I have no idea what it was. When she asked if there was anything else she could do, I redirected her to the house to pick up those original items for delivery.
She came back to the house and loaded up her golf cart to make her rounds. Later I will walk her course to check for misplaced items and open doors. Sometimes the dirty laundry ends up on top of John’s car or the clean laundry back in the shop office to be washed again. I’ve found glasses in the garden, a sock posing as a stick in Gunner’s mouth, and compost leavings in the refrigerator, to name a few. Yesterday it was unknown seed pods in a pan.
Often in the mornings I hear her rattling around in the kitchen. She reorganizes the silverware drawer, puts dishes away in unique places, and saves empty Kleenex boxes because they are so pretty. She is busy, she is happy, and she is safe wandering from one mission to the next in our houses and on our property.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
In My Mother's House
Apples ripening on the counter in the bathroom, an old CD soaking in a plastic tub of vinegar and water, and a moldy red pepper with two slimy green onions sitting in the freezer bin: this is a view of my life in my mother’s house. I am grateful that the ice cream has not yet landed unnoticed in the refrigerator, though one day I did find the cooking spray in the freezer.
Not ten minutes ago, I lugged a basketful of clean jeans from our laundry area in the shop office to our living room where Mom is in charge of folding laundry. During the time it took me to write the first paragraph at the computer back in my bedroom, Mom snatched up the basket of clean jeans, took it back to the shop, and then returned it again to the living room, asking me if the jeans were clean. It’s hard to keep up with her.
I don’t remember asking God to teach me patience, but there are hourly lessons here at home. Items disappear. Laundry gets lost. Thrown-away vegetables end up in the freezer. Questions get repeated. At times our conversations sound like the skipping and repeating of a broken record. Mom asks a question, I answer it, and within minutes she asks the same question. There is no sense in arguing with or correcting her. I’ve learned to let things slide, knowing they will be forgotten or repeated within minutes. Does it really matter that she thinks it hasn’t rained in weeks when yesterday all it did was rain? No. Is it important to have the last word? No. Being kind is far more important than being right.
However, I did quietly throw away the spoiled vegetables in the freezer and the vinegar-soaked CD (an old trial offer from AOL). But the apples are still sitting on the bathroom counter.
Not ten minutes ago, I lugged a basketful of clean jeans from our laundry area in the shop office to our living room where Mom is in charge of folding laundry. During the time it took me to write the first paragraph at the computer back in my bedroom, Mom snatched up the basket of clean jeans, took it back to the shop, and then returned it again to the living room, asking me if the jeans were clean. It’s hard to keep up with her.
I don’t remember asking God to teach me patience, but there are hourly lessons here at home. Items disappear. Laundry gets lost. Thrown-away vegetables end up in the freezer. Questions get repeated. At times our conversations sound like the skipping and repeating of a broken record. Mom asks a question, I answer it, and within minutes she asks the same question. There is no sense in arguing with or correcting her. I’ve learned to let things slide, knowing they will be forgotten or repeated within minutes. Does it really matter that she thinks it hasn’t rained in weeks when yesterday all it did was rain? No. Is it important to have the last word? No. Being kind is far more important than being right.
However, I did quietly throw away the spoiled vegetables in the freezer and the vinegar-soaked CD (an old trial offer from AOL). But the apples are still sitting on the bathroom counter.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Evidence Speaks for Itself
On Friday morning, the microwave turntable in the dish drainer and the coffee stains splotched all over the kitchen table told me that Mom’s heating of her instant coffee did not go too well. There was also a plethora of other messages sitting on the table.
On top of the empty nutty ice cream cones box sat an almost-empty 56 ounce bag of M & M’s. Snuggled right up next to the box were three more almost-empty containers: a one-liter tonic water bottle, the cinnamon/ sugar shaker, and a Western Hazelnut bread bag with two lone crusts within.
Mom’s messages are silent but effective. From our larder, I pulled out another tonic water. I added the other items to my grocery list. But I knew better than to throw away the empty box, which she will save just in case we need it someday.
On top of the empty nutty ice cream cones box sat an almost-empty 56 ounce bag of M & M’s. Snuggled right up next to the box were three more almost-empty containers: a one-liter tonic water bottle, the cinnamon/ sugar shaker, and a Western Hazelnut bread bag with two lone crusts within.
Mom’s messages are silent but effective. From our larder, I pulled out another tonic water. I added the other items to my grocery list. But I knew better than to throw away the empty box, which she will save just in case we need it someday.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Technology Woes
My computer may be entering the throes of dementia
This morning, the screen was frozen on my iGoogle page. After I pressed Ctrl/Alt/Delete, the computer kept circling—very slowly—through the task manager commands. I’d call that perserveration: repeating the same cycle endlessly. There didn’t seem to be any way to get out of the sequence.
Of course, I was perserverating, too, trying the same things over and over. Finally, I remembered the power key and manually turned the machine off. It took a long time to power up again, but at least now it’s cooperating.
There were some tense minutes, though, as I tried to take care of business. Mom complained of a sore toe this morning. It looks like she needs to see the podiatrist again. My technological problems rapidly grew as I attempted to promptly address the issue by making an appointment for her. Our landline phone system is on the fritz, so I needed to use my cell phone, which only gets decent reception when I am outdoors. But first, I needed the podiatrist’s name and number. I didn’t find her in the yellow pages or in the file I keep of Mom’s medical stuff. Eventually, I remembered that the information might be in my old paper planner. So I found that number, took pen and paper and phone outdoors, and made an appointment.
Naturally, during all this communication breakdown, I had a number of writing ideas spontaneously occur to me, so I scribbled on a few Post-it Notes to jog my memory later. I am a hopeless case when it comes to writing without my computer. So now I have this tangled web of Post-it Notes: writing ideas, passwords, airline confirmation numbers, appointment reminders. My computer has become the Post-it Note command center. Some of the information needs to go in my Google calendar, some in my phone, and some in another composition or two.
But first I need to make lunch, take a nap, start the bread machine, and go grocery shopping.
This morning, the screen was frozen on my iGoogle page. After I pressed Ctrl/Alt/Delete, the computer kept circling—very slowly—through the task manager commands. I’d call that perserveration: repeating the same cycle endlessly. There didn’t seem to be any way to get out of the sequence.
Of course, I was perserverating, too, trying the same things over and over. Finally, I remembered the power key and manually turned the machine off. It took a long time to power up again, but at least now it’s cooperating.
There were some tense minutes, though, as I tried to take care of business. Mom complained of a sore toe this morning. It looks like she needs to see the podiatrist again. My technological problems rapidly grew as I attempted to promptly address the issue by making an appointment for her. Our landline phone system is on the fritz, so I needed to use my cell phone, which only gets decent reception when I am outdoors. But first, I needed the podiatrist’s name and number. I didn’t find her in the yellow pages or in the file I keep of Mom’s medical stuff. Eventually, I remembered that the information might be in my old paper planner. So I found that number, took pen and paper and phone outdoors, and made an appointment.
Naturally, during all this communication breakdown, I had a number of writing ideas spontaneously occur to me, so I scribbled on a few Post-it Notes to jog my memory later. I am a hopeless case when it comes to writing without my computer. So now I have this tangled web of Post-it Notes: writing ideas, passwords, airline confirmation numbers, appointment reminders. My computer has become the Post-it Note command center. Some of the information needs to go in my Google calendar, some in my phone, and some in another composition or two.
But first I need to make lunch, take a nap, start the bread machine, and go grocery shopping.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Apples and Animals
If coring apples didn’t do it, unhooking Gunner from the fence did.
We have a bumper crop of apples again this year. After lunch, I started processing the apples that Mom picked this morning. I only got through nine cups worth of coring: that’s three cups of sliced apples per quart-size plastic bag for the freezer.
My hands and arms ached after that effort, so I went on to a simple task: opening the cage door between Tiva and Eiger’s cages, a quick chore I usually do mid-morning. As I walked up to the cage, I noticed that Gunner was not running to greet me. He was crouched down next to the perimeter fence, a sure sign he was stuck.
And he was. This time he had managed to hook the latch on his collar to the fence. So there I was, trying to convince this untrained ninety-pound dog to stay down and still so I could unhook him from the fence. He was so excited I was there that he became one perpetual wiggle, and he’s so strong that sitting on him doesn’t restrain him. But, eventually, he cooperated just enough so I could work the latch.
It’s pitiful, I know, what little exertion it takes to make my arms feel like lead and my knuckles throb. I’m going to sit back in my recliner and read a book so said muscles and joints are ready for the evening’s exertions: making supper, driving to church, playing my flute and singing in choir practice, and driving the twenty miles back home.
Music has a way of making everything better, so even if my hands and arms are still complaining by the time I get home, my spirit will be singing. I’ll be refreshed and ready to deal with Gunner and the apples again tomorrow.
We have a bumper crop of apples again this year. After lunch, I started processing the apples that Mom picked this morning. I only got through nine cups worth of coring: that’s three cups of sliced apples per quart-size plastic bag for the freezer.
My hands and arms ached after that effort, so I went on to a simple task: opening the cage door between Tiva and Eiger’s cages, a quick chore I usually do mid-morning. As I walked up to the cage, I noticed that Gunner was not running to greet me. He was crouched down next to the perimeter fence, a sure sign he was stuck.
And he was. This time he had managed to hook the latch on his collar to the fence. So there I was, trying to convince this untrained ninety-pound dog to stay down and still so I could unhook him from the fence. He was so excited I was there that he became one perpetual wiggle, and he’s so strong that sitting on him doesn’t restrain him. But, eventually, he cooperated just enough so I could work the latch.
It’s pitiful, I know, what little exertion it takes to make my arms feel like lead and my knuckles throb. I’m going to sit back in my recliner and read a book so said muscles and joints are ready for the evening’s exertions: making supper, driving to church, playing my flute and singing in choir practice, and driving the twenty miles back home.
Music has a way of making everything better, so even if my hands and arms are still complaining by the time I get home, my spirit will be singing. I’ll be refreshed and ready to deal with Gunner and the apples again tomorrow.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Car Conversation
I hit the turn signal for the left turn out our driveway. John imitated the hollow ticking by clicking his tongue.
“I know. It sounds like an old metronome,” I said.
John’s answer took me off guard. “Or maybe a Metro Gnome.”
I started to laugh, but this verbal punning was not yet over. Mom chimed in from the back seat: “Metro Nomes live in Alaska.”
“I know. It sounds like an old metronome,” I said.
John’s answer took me off guard. “Or maybe a Metro Gnome.”
I started to laugh, but this verbal punning was not yet over. Mom chimed in from the back seat: “Metro Nomes live in Alaska.”
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Yesterday at a Glance
If my calculations are correct, my right arm should start screaming in three or four hours. That’s the standard lapse between exertion and pain.
But I really couldn’t help it. Our filthy front door has been begging me for months to clean it. This morning, with a sudden burst of motivation, I relented.
The inside was, well, more than dusty. Thinking to preserve the paint, I simply wiped it down with a wet cloth. The results were encouraging, so I rinsed the cloth, pulled out the 409, and stepped over the dog onto our front porch.
It didn’t take long before our dog, Radio, moved out of the way, sneezing from the 409 mist that kept getting into my eyes, too. Cleaning off years of dirt was gratifying, but I discovered that the door and frame are painted, not metal, and that they need repainting. The finish on the door lever and dead bolt need some attention, too.
But my arm has done enough, and I am happy with the now-clean door. It’s only noon, and since I was wise enough to practice my flute before I washed down the door, my arm is done for the day. When it gets too loud, I’ll hush it down with ice or heat and maybe some Tylenol. But right now, it’s time for my nap.
But I really couldn’t help it. Our filthy front door has been begging me for months to clean it. This morning, with a sudden burst of motivation, I relented.
The inside was, well, more than dusty. Thinking to preserve the paint, I simply wiped it down with a wet cloth. The results were encouraging, so I rinsed the cloth, pulled out the 409, and stepped over the dog onto our front porch.
It didn’t take long before our dog, Radio, moved out of the way, sneezing from the 409 mist that kept getting into my eyes, too. Cleaning off years of dirt was gratifying, but I discovered that the door and frame are painted, not metal, and that they need repainting. The finish on the door lever and dead bolt need some attention, too.
But my arm has done enough, and I am happy with the now-clean door. It’s only noon, and since I was wise enough to practice my flute before I washed down the door, my arm is done for the day. When it gets too loud, I’ll hush it down with ice or heat and maybe some Tylenol. But right now, it’s time for my nap.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Music and Yellow Monkeys
When the music starts, he comes alive. His blue eyes twinkle. He kicks his legs and waves his arms. He smiles and squeals and wiggles. He is a picture of joy and a lesson in delight.
His taste in music is not yet discerning. A memory chip playing a tinny melody from his interactive toys or his mama leading the worship team in praise or his daddy making up a silly song are all catalysts for his wholehearted, whole body response.
Music motivates Benjamin and engages his whole being. Put music and his yellow monkey together, and happiness is guaranteed. He sits on the floor, arm with monkey out to the side, watching it twist and turn as he holds it by its tiny, floppy arm and pivots his wrist. When the music stops, he uses the monkey to slam down on the buttons, keyboard, and levers of his LeapFrog music table.
He makes his own music as well, trying out the range of his voice and all the wonderful sounds he can make, everything from squeals to laughter to snorts and roars and blowing bubbles.
Benjamin’s delight in music is pure praise. He rocks to the love of his Heavenly Father. He shouts his joyful noises to the Lord. In him I see what it is to abandon oneself to Joy.
I want to worship so wholeheartedly, too, but probably without the yellow monkey.
His taste in music is not yet discerning. A memory chip playing a tinny melody from his interactive toys or his mama leading the worship team in praise or his daddy making up a silly song are all catalysts for his wholehearted, whole body response.
Music motivates Benjamin and engages his whole being. Put music and his yellow monkey together, and happiness is guaranteed. He sits on the floor, arm with monkey out to the side, watching it twist and turn as he holds it by its tiny, floppy arm and pivots his wrist. When the music stops, he uses the monkey to slam down on the buttons, keyboard, and levers of his LeapFrog music table.
He makes his own music as well, trying out the range of his voice and all the wonderful sounds he can make, everything from squeals to laughter to snorts and roars and blowing bubbles.
Benjamin’s delight in music is pure praise. He rocks to the love of his Heavenly Father. He shouts his joyful noises to the Lord. In him I see what it is to abandon oneself to Joy.
I want to worship so wholeheartedly, too, but probably without the yellow monkey.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Stream of Consciousness
Do brown slugs eat dead toads?
That very question crossed my mind yesterday morning when I saw a dead toad in the driveway with a live slug on top of it. A couple trips down the driveway later, the slug had disappeared, but the toad was still intact.
After a lovely week with fifteen-month-old Benjamin, I’m getting right back into the rhythm of life here at Casa Del Gato. Instead of hefting a baby, I’m lugging laundry. (The baby is heavier and more fun.)
Benjamin equals joy. His delight when his mommy picks him up is contagious. The funny faces he makes for his daddy make us laugh. His intense concentration on music and rhythm is exciting. His smiles and his laughter warm this grandma’s heart. He is a baby secure in his parents’ love.
Dana and I are on different ends of the caregiving life. She is teaching her child new things, providing enriching opportunities and lots of love. I am coasting with Mom’s gradually declining abilities, allowing space for her to do the things she loves. Dana signs to Benjamin when she speaks. I see signs of waning memory when Mom speaks. Both of us have important roles to play. Both of us face challenges unique to our situations. Both of us find joy and lots of evidence of God’s gigantic grace in the smallest daily details.
But I am the only one who writes about slugs.
That very question crossed my mind yesterday morning when I saw a dead toad in the driveway with a live slug on top of it. A couple trips down the driveway later, the slug had disappeared, but the toad was still intact.
After a lovely week with fifteen-month-old Benjamin, I’m getting right back into the rhythm of life here at Casa Del Gato. Instead of hefting a baby, I’m lugging laundry. (The baby is heavier and more fun.)
Benjamin equals joy. His delight when his mommy picks him up is contagious. The funny faces he makes for his daddy make us laugh. His intense concentration on music and rhythm is exciting. His smiles and his laughter warm this grandma’s heart. He is a baby secure in his parents’ love.
Dana and I are on different ends of the caregiving life. She is teaching her child new things, providing enriching opportunities and lots of love. I am coasting with Mom’s gradually declining abilities, allowing space for her to do the things she loves. Dana signs to Benjamin when she speaks. I see signs of waning memory when Mom speaks. Both of us have important roles to play. Both of us face challenges unique to our situations. Both of us find joy and lots of evidence of God’s gigantic grace in the smallest daily details.
But I am the only one who writes about slugs.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Home
Halting, slow strains of classical music (a Pachelbel canon, I believe) sound out as Mom plays the parlor organ. Her music takes her back in time to cherished, poignant memories. When she attempts to tell me the particular association—whether it be her father’s favorite piano piece or what was sung at the last session of every music camp at Interlochen—she chokes up with emotion.
To her it seems like I have been gone weeks instead of days. The house smells like it, too, so my first task this morning is to scoop the kitty litter and sprinkle baking soda on the carpet around the litter box. I will vacuum later.
Though almost every bit of counter space is covered in the kitchen, the various items are arranged neatly. (She did some organizing while I was gone.) A grouping of honey, molasses, and corn syrup sits on one counter in front of two coffee makers, the toaster, and a blender. Plastic mugs from my Magic Bullet are carefully placed amongst other groupings. Sometimes a theme presents itself: Folger’s single-serve “tea” bags next to Senseo coffee pods. A random order prevails inside the pantry closet space: stacked dish towels next to more coffee pods above rearranged baking items. It doesn’t take too long to locate the cans of my Reliv nutritional supplements beside the dish towels, next to the baking items, and behind the coffee.
It’s good to be home. Someday the whole house will be organized according to my specifications, the clutter removed, the house a spacious, decorated sweep of wooden beams and white walls and open space. But then the parlor organ will be silent, and I will miss Mom.
To her it seems like I have been gone weeks instead of days. The house smells like it, too, so my first task this morning is to scoop the kitty litter and sprinkle baking soda on the carpet around the litter box. I will vacuum later.
Though almost every bit of counter space is covered in the kitchen, the various items are arranged neatly. (She did some organizing while I was gone.) A grouping of honey, molasses, and corn syrup sits on one counter in front of two coffee makers, the toaster, and a blender. Plastic mugs from my Magic Bullet are carefully placed amongst other groupings. Sometimes a theme presents itself: Folger’s single-serve “tea” bags next to Senseo coffee pods. A random order prevails inside the pantry closet space: stacked dish towels next to more coffee pods above rearranged baking items. It doesn’t take too long to locate the cans of my Reliv nutritional supplements beside the dish towels, next to the baking items, and behind the coffee.
It’s good to be home. Someday the whole house will be organized according to my specifications, the clutter removed, the house a spacious, decorated sweep of wooden beams and white walls and open space. But then the parlor organ will be silent, and I will miss Mom.
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