Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
The Attachment Chronicles
Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Maybe you’ve noticed that my posts of late look visually all suck-o. That’s because my best inanimate friend Big Computer had a great big Mac Attack and is in critical condition. So I can’t download fabulous pictures and am reduced to recycling photos I’ve already showed you. Sorry!
Whatevs on that. Maybe you don’t care. The real detritus left by the Mac Attack involves the utter despair of the Pterodactyl, who can no longer spend hours staring at things he wants from Amazon. He can do it on the iPad, but those images apparently aren’t large enough to feed his greedy brain.
Combine that with his recent extreme reluctance to go to bed, and the total equals bedtime disasters.
I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t want to go to bed. Dr. Dee pulled it out of him: I just don’t want the day to end, he said. I think my boy is so grateful each night to have made it through the day that he dreads having to do it again. That’s how hard he works to be a good little boy. His report card? Excels in all areas! He is a model student. He loves to be challenged in reading and math. Keep up the great work!
WHAT? Son of a bitch. Me being the bitch. He is a race car, using up all the expensive fuel and kickass tires to perform flawlessly on the track. I’m the pit crew. He sputters home on shredded tires, fueled by the fumes, weaving like a drunk, and I set about refurbishing him for another lap.
Well. I can handle it. UNLESS THERE’S A SUDDEN (metaphorical) EXPLOSION AND HOT FIREFIGHTER HUSBAND ISN’T THERE TO HELP DOUSE THE FLAMES.
For example: the other night, at bedtime, the Pterodactyl refused to settle down until I fixed the Mac. Are there two more overused words in the parental lexicon than settle down? What does that even mean anymore? At that particular moment, it meant STOP TRYING TO POKE YOUR SISTER’S BOOTY WITH A MONSTER HIGH DOLL.
But I could not fix the Mac just like I cannot adjust the sprinkler system. Really, peeeps, I’m not as talented as you think I am.
And so began the tantrum. A huge, loud, threatening tantrum involving throwing, threatening, screaming, and big fat tears. Remember, in the throes of these tantrums, it’s like he has entered a fugue state. His communication is so vituperative and alien that I’m half-expecting his head to spin.
It lasted a solid 25 minutes. My role is to sit against his bedroom door so he can’t get out, and to make sure he doesn’t destroy anything that can’t be replaced – Blue Puppy, the big piggy bank that was a gift from someone special, blankie. Also, I have to stay calm. This effort is brought to you by Cymbalta, and by breathing so deeply that oxygen was surely permeating my toenails.
Finally, he picked up a 5-foot plush sword he caught one year at a Mardi Gras parade and a steel mesh trash can. He pointed the sword at me and said, “THIS WILL NOT END UNTIL YOU PUT THIS TRASH CAN ON YOUR HEAD.”
“No,” I responded. “I’m not going to put a trash can on my head.”
He thrust the sword at me again and re-screeched his demands. This time I squinted at him as though to say, Really, son? This is what you want? but instead it was like the Alien Kidnapper was letting me temporarily peer inside my sweet son’s brain, and I saw the desperation in his eyes and the pleading in the downturned corners of his mouth. I got it. He needed closure as surely as a gate needs to be latched. He had mapped out this exit strategy, and if we didn’t follow the route, he would be lost.
“Okay,” I said. “Can I scrape the gum off the bottom?”
“YES.”
I slipped the metal can on my head while he stood there, an armed inmate holding the prison guard at his mercy. Then he put down the sword, helped me lift the trash can off my head, and slipped into my lap. He buried his head in my shoulder, and silently shook. “It’s over,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
And then I carried my little boy to bed.
The questions in this occasional column are written by actual people.
Dear Savvy Sister,
I have a question. I have to admit I do not watch much trashy reality tv, so I have only heard about extreme couponing from what is out there on the Internet. So, the other night while watching Toddlers & Tiaras, I noticed June, who is Alana’s mom (duh) was an extreme couponer. Now, Alana and June have to be the best contestants evvveeerr and Sister, I will tell you she had the most paper towels, deodorant, toilet tissue and spaghetti sauce stacked up in her storage. It was the most I have ever seen outside of B.J.’s or Sam’s. How does she do this with coupons????? When I see coupons, they are for like $.40 or at the most $.55. How in the world do they get that much stuff free? When I buy toilet paper or paper towels, I am always out a twenty or more. What do I not understand about couponing and how do I get free toilet paper? Thanks, Your friend and June admirer….Cheap!
Dear Cheap!,
My dad is a killer deep sea fisherman. When I was younger, we went on scores of fishing trips and caught tons of fish like mahi and wahoo. To this day when I catch a whiff of diesel fuel, I can close my eyes and be transported to the back of the Blue Tempest, my knees slightly bent to absorb the ups and downs of the waves, my stomach empty from puking up a little mal-de-mer. My eyes were trained to watch the baits, and my father made us “call the fish” by yelling WAHOO! WAHOO! WAHOO!
After a good day at sea, we returned with enough fresh fish to feed the people of Myanmar. FOR FREE! Okay, wait. There was $385 in diesel fuel; $200 to dock the boat at Port Eads; $150 in groceries for the day (fishing makes Dad hungry); $30 in drinks; $50 in BEER! MUST HAVE BEER!; $125 to hire the (TOTALLY HOT AND SHIRTLESS) first mate; and $500 to hire the helicopter to bring my sister back to New Orleans after she started her first period in the middle of the trip and we couldn’t just quit and go home because the fish were biting. Free fish! For a mere $1,440 or so.
Nothing in life is free. NOTHING. Even the warmth of the sun will cost you a tenner in sunscreen and yearly trips to the dermatologist.
It’s the same with the “free” stuff hoarded by extreme couponers, who I am not at all disparaging. I admire them! But I don’t want to be them.
First, the mechanics of it: You scour the newspaper circulars. Find some good coupons for items you might or might not use, depending on whether you want good deals or just a good money-saving buzz. Sometimes you don’t mind veering off-brand. Me, I can’t live without Bounty paper towels. Then you go to the grocery store inserts to figure out which of those items might be on sale. When you match a coupon with a sale item, visit the manufacturer’s website to find an additional coupon. Most stores let you pile a store coupon on top of a manufacturer’s coupon. When you make a match, you stockpile those items.
So suppose you see that Green Giant frozen brussels sprouts, $3.25/bag, are BOGO (buy one get one free) at Publix. Then you find a coupon for $1 off any Green Giant frozen item. Visit the Green Giant website, and print out yet another coupon for 75 cents off any Green Giant item – plus you notice that in a temporary joint promotion, when you buy $5 in Green Giant products, you get a free 20 oz. bag of Sargento parmesan cheese.
Head to the store. For six dollars, you get eight bags of frozen brussels sprouts and a bag of cheese – which would ordinarily have cost you $29. And now you can make brussels sprouts soup! With enough cheese to cover up the taste.
That’s the basic idea, times infinity. So do you get a bunch of stuff for free? Sure, if you think your time isn’t worth anything. Also add in the cost of printer ink and paper.
I think those Extreme Couponing gals have got it going on. Most of them spend at least five hours a day looking for deals, clipping, scouring the web for leads, and driving all over creation to buy stuff where it’s the cheapest. A penny saved is indeed a penny earned – and people who do this are saving/earning the equivalent of at least the salary of a part-time job. And it is a job – a tedious, mind-numbing job with unpredictable benefits. I mean, they’re not always purchasing products they need – hence the lady with 10 years of Suave shampoo stashed away in her basement.
The bigger question – is it worth it? As in much of life, I think moderation is key. I try to work the Publix BOGO promotions into my weekly grocery shop, and on occasion I use an unusually attractive coupon – but only on products I habitually buy. If I save 75 cents on a $2.85 can of smoked ham, but never eat the ham, I’ve actually cost myself $2.10.
And let’s think of your Sunday mornings. Do you usually drink an extra cup of coffee and read the New York Times Book Review? Do the crossword puzzle? Watch Oprah’s new Super Soul Sunday, which is more insightful than church? Go for a long walk? Act really cranky so your husband tells you to go take a nap? ; } Heeheehee. Do you want to give all/any of that up so you can clip coupons? Maybe you do, and that’s fine.
Just remember that time is worth both money and a degree of inner peace. We live in a capitalist society, and food, though readily available, costs money. It’s the way our economy works, and people who don’t have the time or inclination to clip coupons shouldn’t feel guilty about it. It’s enough to just shop frugally, and be aware of what’s on sale. I think of it as playing a role in the country’s financial recovery! That, my friends, is what patriotism is all about.
Shop on, peeps!
Have a problem? The Savvy Sister can solve it! Write to her at tricia@mylefthook.com, or like tricia booker’s my left hook page on Facebook and leave a message.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
I had to put the letter down and stare at the ceiling just to absorb this new development. Sterling had been in contact with his mother! I was stunned. We had only talked about his mother once, on an afternoon when we were sitting outside eating some of Merri’s oatmeal cookies.
Sterling asked, “Why are these so much better than the grocery store ones?”
“Because they’re homemade! Haven’t you ever had homemade oatmeal cookies?”
“Nothing’s homemade in my house.”
We munched for a moment or two, then Sterling, almost shyly, said, “Maybe if my mama was around, she’d bake cookies.”
Long pause.
“How old were you when she left?”
“Six. I remember because it was right before my birthday and she said she was gonna get me a puppy.”
“Even though they think you’re allergic?”
“Mama didn’t think that. I think Daddy just says it because he doesn’t want me to have a pet. Maybe it would remind him of Mama too much.”
“Why’d she lea-”
“Daddy hit her.”
His words stuck in the air like a spider web, and I fought the urge to raise my hands to my face and clear them away. At the time I didn’t understand fully what he was saying – husbands hitting wives just didn’t make sense to me. Three seconds later, Cleo spotted a bee and leaped up snapping her jaws at it, in the process knocking me over and spilling a watering can into the cookies. Cleo missed the bee but landed in a pile of mulch, which went everywhere. We both started laughing, maybe grateful to end that conversation, and because it was pretty dang funny.
I wiped my eyes remembering that day, and Sterling’s funny way of sticking his tongue out when he laughed. I put the letter back into the envelope, buried my head in my pillow. Reading the whole letter didn’t feel right. I understood why Manning seemed so desperate to have them; but I didn’t understand why he didn’t have his own pile of letters, or why Sterling had stashed his letters in my backyard. And I still didn’t get why Sterling didn’t tell me that his brother was the one who had taken Cleo.
Finally I realized that I had stumbled onto a problem I couldn’t handle on my own. I pulled the letters from my pocket and retrieved the box from the backyard, and presented the whole thing to my mother. “This is what Manning was looking for,” I said. “They’re letters to Sterling. From his mother. I don’t know what to do.” I stifled a sob. “I’m sorry I lied. I just don’t understand what’s going on!”
Merri took the box and rifled through some of the letters. She took one out and read the first few lines thoughtfully.
“Palmer, honey, go outside for a while and weed out the vegetable garden, okay?”
I gave her a long look, my breath ragged and uneven. “Okay,” I said.
I wandered outside with no intention of weeding. I knew Merri just wanted me out of the house for a while. But I sat next to the carrots and saw those little seedlings waving in the breeze, surrounded by invaders growing three times as fast, so I reached out and started pulling. Soon I had a pile of green next to me, and I took a break, leaning back against my hands with eyes closed, face to the sun. If I thought hard, I could separate my eyes-open reality from this lovely brief moment in which the wind’s coolness and the sun’s heat collided on me, both giving me their best. I could breathe through my mouth and taste the sea, and imagine that I was just a grain of sand, with no bigger role in this world than to join with all the other grains to populate the beach.
Then I heard Merri calling me, and the ocean again became the place where Sterling had died. I opened my eyes and went inside.
Merri had returned all of the letters to the box, and taped it up neatly. We sat at the kitchen table, and she took my hands in hers.
“Honey, listen. I know Manning has been awful to you. Really awful. But he needs to have these letters. Mathilda was – is – his mother, too, and he deserves this. Okay?”
I thought for a moment. “Merri,” I said. “How do you know her name? You sound like you know her.”
Merri’s lips parted but she didn’t say anything right away. She blushed, and looked away.
“Well…..I do know her.”
This shocked me. How could she not have mentioned this? All the time Sterling had spent over here – it seemed crazy. I was about to say so, but Merri spoke first.
“A long time ago, Sterling’s father was…..he was my….boyfriend, I guess you’d say. And I was young, and I thought I really loved him. I did love him, I guess. But he didn’t love me, and I found out there was another girl who was really his girlfriend.”
“Mathilda,” I guessed.
“That’s right,” she said. “And it hurt me a lot, and I was very sad about it. But then I met your dad, and he made me realize that I was much better off without a guy like that. So I fell in love with Hawk, and have loved him ever since!” She smiled at me.
“But where’s Mathilda? Why would she leave her children?”
“Oh, Palmer, sweetie. Life can be so complicated. I don’t think she wanted to leave.”
“Sterling says his daddy hit her.”
Merri looked at me sharply. “What? When did he tell you that?”
“One day a while ago. We were just talking. He said that’s why she left.”
Merri rubbed her eyes with her palms and sighed heavily. “People talked about that,” she said. “I wouldn’t put it past Asher.”
“But why didn’t somebody help her?”
“Honey, it’s not that easy. It’s really not.”
“Well, still,” I said. “I don’t see why she couldn’t take Sterling with her when she left.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Merri stood up and said she was going to find Manning. “I’m going by myself,” she said. “I don’t want you to come. Stay here until Hawk or me comes back, okay?”
I started to argue with her, but I could tell by the way her lips were set that it wouldn’t matter. So I just nodded. She picked up the box and walked out the door. “Lock the door behind me,” she called as she left.
I turned the deadbolt, then returned to the kitchen and found a homemade oatmeal cookie. I sat on the floor and and split it, and gave half to Cleo. “Wish you were here, Sterling,” I whispered. I took a bite of the cookie, but it didn’t taste nearly as good as I remembered.
It’s Day 4 of my Partial Cleansing Diet, and I just broke down and ate a piece of toast because I woke up feeling shaky and woozy. Also, I dreamed that all of the neighborhood women I know have been attending Secret Social Engagements without me at a place called the Paregoric Cafe. Interesting, n’est-ce pas?
Hot Firefighter Husband has joined me in the Partial Cleansing Diet. He apparently thinks it’s a contest because every time I turn around he’s stirring Metamucil into something. And yesterday when we both made spinach salads, I threw a couple of dried cranberries on top and he looked at me all smug-like. But I started a day earlier, so really I’m winning.
Being on the Partial Cleansing Diet has made me revisit this family’s appalling eating habits, which are nonetheless better than 90 percent of the population. My kids love grilled chicken, broccoli, salmon, brown rice and yogurt. When I cook, I make dishes like chicken noodle soup, red beans and rice and white bean chili. Last week I made an awesome shrimp and corn chowder using fat-free milk. But the Pterodactyl will actually bathe willingly for a bag of Entenmann’s chocolate chip muffins. The Diva’s intake consists of noodles, peanut butter, noodles, popcorn, noodles, and marshmallow-pretzel sandwiches. And the other day, the Tyrant threw a tantrum because she wanted an ice cream sandwich for breakfast and I said no. SHOCKING! I did say she could have one if she ate breakfast, which is probably No Good, but still! I said no. When she was done with her yelling, she came up behind me, kicked me in the leg and said, “THAT’S WHAT YOU GET!” and stomped off to her room. If she wasn’t just five years old, I’d call her a bitch.
And now, the Pterodactyl has gained weight due to his Attachment Disorder medicine. Can he possibly live without Cheez-Its and hot dogs? “He can’t eat it if it’s not in the house,” says Dr. Dee. Okay, so honestly? I had not thought of that.
So now that my colon is Partially Cleansed, I think I’m going to start cleansing my pantry of the majority of processed foods. We’ll still have pretzels and crackers – I’m not crazy – but we’ll have to live without Oreos and the like.
It will be tricky, particularly since just yesterday we instituted a new Computer-goes-off-at-6pm rule. This restriction prompted the Pterodactyl to pump moisturizing lotion all over the kitchen floor, refuse to do his Snow Person homework project, and taunt his little sister until she whacked him with Clawdeen Wolf, her Monster High doll with ears on the top of her head and removable hands. Clawdeen left a big welt on the boy’s back.
I also really want to limit fast food, though it’s so damn easy sometimes. But I strongly suspect McNuggets are made of silicon and chicken skin. I would never ever eat one. But they’re okay for my kids? I suck. Chick-fil-A food is a little better quality – but Chick-fil-A hates gay people! Why am I supporting that? Also, that giant cow creeps me out.
We’ll see if I can turn into an organic hippie mom right here in the middle of suburbia. Husband’s working tonight, but no fast food for us! Because it’s dollar pizza night at our local pizza joint, which also serves spinach salad. Me and spinach are like the Kardashian sisters right now. You know, still together, though we don’t always get along.
Baby steps, baby steps.
Any exercise that has the word “Russian” in its name can’t be good. Let’s just agree on that, with insincere apologies to Vladimir Putin, who totally knows what I mean.
My trainer Son of Sam and I took a two-week break from each other, and our reunion was bittersweet. Weighted squats? SURE! Bentover rows? OH-KAY! Then he told me to do a handstand against a wall and hold it there for 45 seconds. “I can’t do a handstand,” I said.
SoS: Yes, you can.
Me: No. I. Can’t.
SoS: Just do it.
Me: No.
SoS: What’s wrong? What are you worried about?
Me: My arms will collapse and I’ll crumple into a pile.
SoS: Come on.
So I did it. And my arms collapsed and I crumpled into a pile.
Son of Sam stood there shaking his head. “I have never had someone who is where you are at who could not do a handstand.”
I started crying a tiny bit.
SoS: Now what’s wrong?
Me: I feel like you’re disappointed in me and it’s hurting my feelings.
Because when I’m not wearing boxing gloves, I feel all vulnerable sometimes.
Son of Sam pretended it was no big deal. Then he instructed me to do 90-second sets of a sit-up exercise that he called “a combo of a Russian twist and a modified jack-knife crunch” while holding a 10-medicine ball. Each set was followed by a suicide sprint across the gym floor holding the medicine ball. What? That’s just mean. But I finished all three sets because I was so upset about the handstand business. Also, it’s my HABIT to work out. It’s what I do, unlike the legions of New Year’s Resolution people who have been packing the gym this month. You have to wade through their virgin sweat to get from elliptical to treadmill. I can imagine them on New Year’s Day, watching football and drinking the last of the eggnog and promising to start working out five days a week and eating tilapia and brussels sprouts for dinner every night.
That is NO GOOD, because you’ll only do it for a week before you realize that tilapia isn’t all that good. Also, if you go from not working out to going to the gym every day, you will soon hate the gym. That’s just a fact. And it’s sad – because getting healthy is a great resolution, but it’s completely unattainable without the right approach. Striving to go to the gym every day is like striving to neatly fold fitted sheets. Doomed to fail.
So I put together four resolution tips for newbie and wannabe heath nuts.
1. Make a plan that’s specific and exciting, or at least enticing. How about: I will go to the gym twice this week to attend a zumba class and a circuit class, and I will take two long walks. Seriously! That’s all you need to start! If you can stick with that for a month, you will have gotten into the zone, and will be ready to up your workload. If you can swing it, hire a personal trainer. A good one will change your life.
2. Get. Enough. Sleep. Nothing kills momentum like exhaustion. If you get all your news from The Daily Show, just record it and watch it in place of the evening news the next day.
3. Change your eating habits. Notice I didn’t say DIET. Diets don’t work, people. Did you just put your fingers in your ears? Son of a bitch. Fine. DIETS DON’T WORK, PEOPLE. You must change your eating habits forever. I know, it’s unfair. So what. Life is difficult. That’s the first line of the book The Road Less Traveled by Dr. M. Scott Peck. Let your body be uncomfortable for a few days, and feel it changing. It’s not easy, but it’s simple: whole grains, vegetables, fruits, nuts, yogurt, lean meats, fish….sound boring? Think of it this way: a fried egg sandwich. A crunchy salad. Peanut butter milkshake. Chicken vegetable soup. Fish tacos.
4. Read this blog. It too could change your life. To reward you, I promise to VLOG tomorrow, although this time I’ll wear clothes. I’m going to address my 5-day semi-cleansing diet, which I made up using my vast lack of dietary knowledge. I know, I know, I just told you that diets don’t work. That’s true. But I’m not doing this to lose weight – it’s to kickstart my re-entry into the world of sobriety, and of foods that aren’t born in a factory. Because after this holiday season – 10 days in New Orleans, remember? – my liver is not even speaking to me.
Stay tuned.
Yes, yes, today is Friday, and you should be reading Chapter 10 of Firebush. But peeps, I’m just not feeling it. I’ll tell you this: the letters are from Sterling’s mother. That should hold you until tomorrow.
But for today, I want to talk about how a woman’s work (WARNING: WILDLY HYPERBOLIC STEREOTYPE AHEAD) is never, ever done, mainly because nobody else thinks to do it. For example, in a household, who knows when the toilet paper is in short supply? The woman. Who understands that the boy likes his fried eggs cooked, but still juicy, but not at all crackly? Me. The woman. AND WHO IS THE ONLY PERSON WHO WILL CLEAN UP THE MESS PICTURED BELOW? Me. That’s who. Me.
By the way, for 10 years, I have successfully staved off any temptation to purchase baby dolls with humanlike bodily functions BECAUSE IT IS GROSS, PEOPLE. Children DON’T NEED to know where poop/pee comes from. THEY JUST DON’T. And if for some reason they do, you can tell them. I AM SO TIRED OF BODILY FUNCTIONS. When, oh when will I be free from the confines of my children’s urethras and bowels?
Potty -training? Ppfftt! At least when they used diapers I could keep the crap and piss in a central location. But Holy Clorox Wipes, how do they get urine on the shower curtain? On the mirror? On the….it pains me to say this….on the toothbrushes. I mean, I don’t know that for a fact, but it makes sense.
I won’t even get started on the dog, who in a two-hour period last week ate a box of granola bars, two rolls of toilet paper, a CB2 catolog and the bathroom trash. Are those psychedelic piles of fecal matter, or did I forget to take my hormones again?
Again: I have never bought my children dolls that pee and poop. But my relatives who claim to love me have not been so selective. So I recently came across this poor baby who apparently had diarrhea in the bathtub. As a social experiment, I left her there to see if anyone else would notice. It will probably not surprise you to learn that if not for me, this poor fake child would be shellacked to the tub by her own green gooey output, which dries all hard-like.
IS ANYBODY EVEN LISTENING TO THIS? DOUBLEYOO. TEE. EFF.
Note: The questions in this occasional series come from actual people.
Dear Savvy Sister,
How do you not totally lose it when you are taking care of your parents and teens and tweens? There are so many similarities between the teen and the Dad with Alzheimer’s - stubbornness, righteousness, argumentative. I basically have taken up the role of “bitch” of the family because I am the one making sure there are no drug misuses (or uses for the teen) and they are safe driving. Luckily, the teen is not driving – yet.
I am the mother bitch and daughter bitch. Daughter bitch roles: I am the one who tells my Dad that he cannot come home and that the facility where he lives is the best place for him. Also, now that I have taken over Mom’s finances and have her on a budget – I have taken away her credit cards. Mother bitch roles: I now have the kids doing their own laundry – washing machine broken once. Grades and assignments – trying to let them do their own thing – but when it falls short or fails – I am their new study buddy. It’s a much loved interference. Not. I’m glad I have a supportive hubby and I’m happy to have a glass of wine everyday. Okay, some days I am too tired to drink the wine.
Signed,
Bitch
Dear Bitch,
Oh, I like the sound of that! Dear Bitch! And I am not going to deny that it sounds like you can be one mean cookie. But listen – I’m guessing by your desperate tone that this is a lot more about you and how you feel about yourself than it is about everything else. It sounds to me like you’re doing a lot of apologizing – if not in reality, then at least in your head – for doing your job. And let’s be honest, these are your jobs – taking care of aging parents and raising children.
But here’s another job – taking care of yourself. Are you getting enough sleep? Eating right? Exercising? This stuff matters. Have I told you what I’m like if I only get six hours of sleep and grab a handful of Cheez-Its for lunch? Well. This blog is called My Left Hook for a reason. I’m not blowing smoke – unfortunately, we now know that you’re genetically pre-disposed to Alzheimer’s Disease. (I am, too, by the way. Grandmother and aunt both – early onset, in fact.) The medically proven pillars of Alzheimer’s prevention? Diet, exercise, stress management. Let’s try to minimize the risk of your own kids having to go through this, okay? Plus it will take the edge off the bitchiness.
Let’s analyze a few things here:
With your father: I’m guessing you’re overwhelmed with guilt for having to put him in a home. But remember that Alzheimer’s, as it advances, is much harder on the caregiver than it is on the patient. Does he become upset when you leave? Then don’t tell him you’re leaving. Tell him you’re going to the bathroom, or to get something out of your car. Afterwards, ask his caregivers whether, 10 minutes later, he was still waiting for you. I’m betting he wasn’t. When I visited my aunt over Christmas, I stayed 20 minutes. She loved politics in her better days, so we talked about John F. Kennedy. It was lovely. I told her I had to run an errand and would be back soon, and she was fine with that.
Make your visits pleasant and fun, and limit them to a certain amount of time – 20 minutes? Forty-five minutes? And when you leave, be done with it. Your dad is in the safest place for him and his family, and that’s that. This should not be a source of stress for you.
Your mother: It sounds like she’s pretty close to losing her independence. Instead of “taking over her finances,” think of it as paying Mom’s bills for her, and make sure she has some control over some things. Give her a credit card – but make it a debit card, or a gift visa, with a $500 limit. And by the way – can she come help you out sometimes? That might be good for both of you.
Your kids: I don’t think you’re trying hard enough to stay out of the way. All you need to do is give them an environment in which they can manage their own lives. Here’s a tip: This past week, when my son and I visited Dr. Dee, she focused on the fact that anger is a choice. That’s a mantra in our house now. Anger is a choice – for everyone. Say to your son: Honey, I don’t want to argue any more. You doing your (homework, chores, family activities) is up to you. It will be your choice. But there will be consequences to every choice. If you can’t be pleasant, you’ll lose your (phone, television, Wii). If you get a bad grade on that science test, you’ll have to skip lacrosse practice. So now that you know the rules, it’s out of my hands. Okay? I love you. And I cooked your favorite dinner. (PS You can wash their clothes for them. Just make them fold it and put it away.)
Finally, get some emotional support. There are blogs and support groups chomping at the bit to help you. And make the occasional coffee/wine date with friends. You’d be surprised how much better you feel after talking it out.
This is your lot in life, and as lots go, it’s not terrible. Hard, but not terrible. Being a Bitch makes it harder, though. Be proud of who you are and what you are doing for your family. Take care of yourself, mind and body. Don’t tell me you don’t have time. If you have time to write the Savvy Sister, you have time to go for a walk.
I am thinking of you, Bitch. Anyone who calls herself Bitch is a girl after my heart. Good luck.
Carry on, peeps.
Yours truly,
the Savvy Sister
Solicit your own personalized advice from the Savvy Sister by sending your questions to tricia@mylefthook.com, or by friending me on Facebook. Please use proper grammar.
