Letting Go

I'm letting Kyle go skiing today without me or Kirk being there. Scary.

There is an annual, unofficial ski trip to Paoli Peaks today. The kids were supposed to be off but had to go to school until 1 for a make-up day from the ice storm. We went last year on this same trip. Loads of people from school are there, and it is really fun. This year, Kirk couldn't take off, and I didn't want to go with all 3 kids alone. By the time we'd get to Paoli, get skis, and get on the slopes, it would be about 3 o'clock. Then we'd only have a couple of hours of daylight, and I didn't want to be there in the dark with the 3 kids, especially the girls. Last year about 5, the teens and snow boarders began showing up and it started to get icy and fast, and I just couldn't do it, so I initially said no to any of us going.

Then all of Kyle's friends were going, and he really wanted to go, so we found a ride with a friend of mine who is taking 4 other boys. She skis and is staying the whole time. I know he will be fine, but it's scary to let him go into a potentially dangerous situation without a parent nearby. I know it's good to trust him and he needs to know that I have confidence in his decision making, but he's my boy and I'm a worry wort!

He will be 13 tomorrow. I can't believe it. This time 13 years ago, Kirk and I were at the beach. It was windy and chilly, and the sand was stinging my legs because it was blowing so hard. The ocean at Sandy Beach Park was rough that day. Kirk went body-surfing, and I sat watching, getting my toes wet because I was so awkward that I didn't trust myself in the water. Early the next morning, we headed to the hospital (for the second time), and Kyle was born 16 hours later. Seems like yesterday...

So I'm letting him go bit by bit. I began to panic last night thinking that next year he will be 14! Thirteen still seems young by comparison. He has one more year of grade school, then it's off to St. X, and he's not mine anymore after that. I think being a mother is the saddest, most joyful job in the world, often at the same time.

Becoming My Father's Mother

I am becoming my father's mother. I don't like that role.

Yesterday, I went to Dad's house for a visit and to get the ball rolling to get him an appointment with a new doctor at the Movement Disorder Clinic. There are several pieces of information needed, and I wanted to call his current doctor from his house in case they needed to talk to him instead of me.

So I called the current doctor and asked for Dad's records, tests, and the referral to be faxed over to the new doctor. They were very nice and said they'd be happy to send them. He also needed to get copies of his insurance cards, so we headed to the copy store and then out to lunch at Tumbleweed. That's when my parenting odyssey started, and it didn't hit me until today that so much of what I did for Dad yesterday is so much what I did, and still do, for my own kids today.

As we left his house, I held the door for him while he locked the deadbolt. Then I opened the door for him to get in the front seat of the van and closed it for him once he was in. He has trouble getting the seat belt latched, so after I got in, I helped him get his seat belt on.

I went in and got the copies made and then headed to Tumbleweed. I helped him out of the van and walked with him, slowly, to the restaurant. His nose was runny yesterday, and a clear drop of mucous would hang off the end of it. It liked to gross me out, looking at it. Either he didn't know it was there or didn't have a hankie, but I had to offer him a tissue to get him to wipe his nose. Once our meal arrived and he started eating, he got a big string of cheese hanging off his lip. I kept waiting for him to wipe his mouth, but he didn't, so I had to tell him, "Dad, you have a piece of cheese hanging from your lip."

During our meal, he began to sweat, which is one of the issue with Parkinson's. He had sweat rolling off his cheeks and onto the table. His glasses had drops of sweat on them. I offered him a napkin to wipe his face with, and when he did, his razor stubble from not shaving for two or three days, caught the napkin and little balls of tissue clung to his cheeks. I had to mirror him to get him to wipe his face clean.

Finally watching him trying to cut up his burrito was excruciating. It took every ounce in me NOT to offer to cut it up for him.

He was s-l-o-w yesterday. I told Colleen that it was like he was moving underwater. Everything was delayed. He was coherent, but he took a long time answering questions, walking, eating, and moving in general. It was near impossible to have a conversation with him yesterday.

I kept looking for my dad, and he was nowhere to be found.

A "Tall" Small? Give Me a Break!

I wasn't feeling particularly nice this afternoon when I pulled into the drive-thru at the national neighborhood coffee chain. I hadn't had my full second cup of coffee because Kirk drained the pot before he left, so I was a little grumpy.

"May I help you?" came the voice over the speaker.

I replied, "I'd like a small coffee, please. Non-fat milk and one sugar."

"Do you mean a 'Tall'?" said the voice.

"No, I mean a 'small'," I answered back, fully understanding that to this particular chain, "Tall" and 'small' are the same thing.

"Well," said the voice, "a 'Tall' is the same as a 'small.' So would you like a Tall?"

"No," I replied, "Tall and small are not the same things. Tall is TALL, and small is what I want."

"Well, ma'am," said the voice which was now becoming irritated with me, "at our coffee shop, small is 'Tall', medium is 'Grande', and large is Venti.' So what size coffee do you want?"

I sat there in my van, just shaking my head at our culture, where everything has to be bigger, larger, better, and nothing can truly be what it is.

I said, "So you're saying that 'Tall' is your smallest coffee, right?"

"Yes," came the reply.

"Then I'll take your smallest size, please," I grinned. I was determined not to ask for a 'Tall' small.

"That will be $1.80, please," said the voice, clearly irritated with me now. "Please drive through."

Well, okay, I didn't really have this conversation, I'm to nice or too chicken or something. But I wanted to! Maybe someday...

Razors and Shaving Cream

I bought Kyle a razor today and a can of shaving cream. It was a weird experience. My not-so-little boy is shaving now. He has been for a couple of months or so with Kirk's razor. He had this dark fuzz on his upper lip, and it was bothering him, making him feel embarrassed. I swore to myself when I was a kid that if one of my own children ever wanted to shave, I would let them.

I remember being twelve and having legs so hairy that I wore tube socks so people wouldn't see them. Thankfully, tube socks were still in style, and I had some to go with every outfit. One pair had yellow stripes, one had red, one had both blue and red. I was set. But then my friends started wearing crew socks rolled down, and I was in trouble. They saw my legs and laughed. I cried.

I told my mom about it, but she said I was too young to shave. She said I had to be 13. That was a whole summer away. It was early June. Field Day. My birthday wasn't until August, so I kept wearing the tube socks. I was either going to be uncool because of the socks or the hair. I chose the socks.

When I finally did get my hands on a razor, my mom told me I could shave only to my knees. What was that about? My legs were equally hairy all the way up, and I was supposed to stop at my knees? Was she kidding? But I complied and only shaved my calves, at least for awhile. There I was, 13 years old, awkward enough in my braces and glasses, and now I had half-shaved legs on top of that. I was a walking case of nerdness.

I broke down before summer was over and shaved my thighs too. My mom found out. Not sure how, but she did, and she came into my room and confronted me with a disappointed, "You'll regret it" speech and shook her head and sighed. I didn't regret it. Ever.

And I made up my mind then and there that if I ever had kids who wanted to shave, they could. I never wanted them to feel the shame and embarrassment I felt as a kid over something that could have been so easily remedied.

When Kyle came to me complaining about his lip hair, I asked him if he wanted to take it off. He did. So I let him. He used Kirk's razor the first few times, and today he asked for his own. I got him one at Kroger along with a can of Edge. I know he'll never look back.

I am SO my mother's daughter

It's pathetic, really how like her I am. Mom cried at everything...commercials, kids singing in church, Christmas carols, the Crusade for Children, firemen, soldiers, ends, beginnings...We would always know when Mom was going to get teary-eyed over something. When we'd steal a glance at her, she'd hiss at us, "Don't stare at me!" and we'd look away. But out of the corner of our eyes, we could see her dabbing at her tears with a tissue because, if she caught them before they rolled down her cheeks, it wasn't technically "crying" in her book.

I'm pretty much the same way, and lately whenever I've seen all of the power workers in town, I get choked up. Can't explain it at all. I see these guys (mostly) up from Carolina and Tennessee and Georgia out working on our power in this weather for hours on end, and it gets to me. I know they are getting overtime, etc. but there is something about the way they put themselves on the line, literally, to help us out that just moves me.

Every time I see some utility workers, I roll down my window and holler a big, "Thank you!" to them. They all wave and smile and hopefully know some of us appreciate all of their hard work.

Tonight, I was taking Kyle to basketball practice when I saw this long line of utility trucks at an intersection. The yellow lights at the top of their trucks were blinking on and off while they waited for the stoplight to turn green. As I drove past them, I flashed my brights off and on, hoping that they would see my little shout out. Some of them flashed back at me, and I smiled to myself, a lump in my throat.

I mumbled to Kyle, "I am so my mother's daughter!" and he asked what I meant. I couldn't answer. My throat had closed, and I needed to catch the tears before they rolled down my cheeks.

Confused

Dad called me this afternoon. We had talked last night about the hole in his roof, and he told me that there was a tarp on it. Then this morning when we talked, he told me there was now a tarp on his roof. I responded that I was glad to know that and reminded him that we had talked last night about it. I thought maybe he had been drinking last night or maybe he had told so many people and didn't remember telling me. Whatever.

So when he called this afternoon, he said, "You know that hole you saw in the roof? It isn't a hole."

I said, "What?"

He replied, "That hole you saw yesterday with the water dripping down the wall. It isn't a hole."

I said, "Yeah, Dad, there's a hole there. I saw the sky from your living room."

He said, "No, it's not a hole. Its got that, what do you call it, that blue thing. It's not a hole."

Finally getting what he was trying to say, but shaken up by his inability to say it, I said, "Do you mean a tarp is on it?"

"Yeah," he answered. "The roof man came yesterday and put a tarp on it. It's not a hole anymore."

I said, "Dad, you've told me this twice already. Remember, we talked last night about it and again this morning. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

We talked for a minute more and then hung up.

After yesterday, and all that I did and all that is left (see "And So It Goes...), I am just really overwhelmed with my dad's needs.

I don't know what to do. I guess we are both confused...

And so it goes...

I'm sitting with a cup of hot coffee looking out my kitchen window and watching yet more snow fall on the broken branches that litter my back yard. Billy Joel is playing on Rhapsody, his music a perfect match for my melancholy mood.

Yesterday was a challenging day. Dad had been without power until Saturday night and had been staying at Colleen's, so I volunteered to take him home. I picked him up at 10, and we cruised by my house so he could see all the damage done to the trees in my yard and all the work still yet to do cleaning up the mess.

I had forgotten that since he lives way out in the county, his street is never plowed. It was still ice-covered when we turned down toward his house. I had thought my neighborhood looked bad, but his was much worse. Each and every house had branches down, gutters pulled away, trees broken in half. His house was no exception.

When my brother-in-law picked Dad up last week, he took some pictures and emailed them to me, so I knew there was considerable damage to Dad's trees. The pictures pale in comparison to the real thing. The tree on the corner that I climbed as a kid had one huge branch at the first fork that had simply split down the middle. Since it was on the corner, branches had fallen onto both roads. Neighbors had cut enough to allow one car to pass through, but that's all. There was not a bare spot of ground in the yard. Branches lay on his roof, across the sidewalk, on other branches. His flag pole had been ripped off the house, and his flag was lying in the snow covered in ice.

I carefully pulled into the ice-covered driveway and helped Dad out. With his Parkinson's, I was worried he'd lose his balance and slip on the ice, and I made a mental note to shovel the driveway later. We got inside okay, and Dad set out to look around and open the blinds and get settled. I brought his stuff in and put it on the couch and then started cleaning out the refrigerator.

This was a particularly irritating job for me yesterday. Back in September when Dad lost power due to Ike, he had let all of his food spoil and hadn't bothered to throw anything away, so after a week without power, it was gross. I don't know why I expected it to be different this time, but I did. I should have known better. I opened the fridge to find a gallon and a half of spoiled milk, eggs, cheese, lunch meat, molded vegetables, salsa, salad dressing...The only saving grace was that after just being cleaned out four months ago, there was not a lot of that accumulated food that multiplies in the doors and in the back of the shelves this time.

So I got a big, black garbage bag and began tossing stuff out. Same with the freezer. My younger sister had made Dad some "TV dinners" for Christmas, and he had thankfully taken them in a cooler when he left, so they were okay. But he didn't bother to take two boxes of mini pizzas, shrimp, popsicles, waffles...I tossed them all. Then I got hot, soapy water and scrubbed the shelves and drawers and ice tray out and restocked the frozen food. The only things that thawed out from the cooler were some sausage links. They were still really cold, so I put them in a skillet to cook up and then refreeze.

Dad was standing around looking like a lost kid. He kept asking what he could do. I looked around at the mess and thought, "Just pick something and start!" but I didn't say that. I had him break down boxes for recycling and put his suitcase away and check his furnace. He was obviously so overwhelmed and wanted to feel like he was helping that I finally told him he should go to the grocery and restock his perishables. That way he was accomplishing something and getting out of my way.

As he was getting ready to leave, I wandered into the living room. For what, I can't remember, but it was then that I noticed that I could see the sky when I looked at the ceiling. I yelled, "Dad, did you know you have a hole in your ceiling?" He came rushing into the living room. Drywall was all over the furniture and carpet. Water was dripping down the wall and onto the floor. It wasn't a big hole, but it was big enough to cause a fair amount of damage in short order if the snow and ice melted any faster. So I put the kitchen on hold and got busy cleaning up the mess in the living room. Dad got on the phone to the insurance agent and a roofer and tried to make arrangements for a temporary fix for his roof. After wiping, vacuuming, and blotting, I got a bucket to put under the drip. Dad got someone to come out that afternoon, and with nothing else he could do, he headed to Meijer's. He backed out of the driveway and immediately got stuck. A neighbor and I had to push him until he got traction enough to go.

I reran the dishwasher, swept the floor, and threw away the fruit rotting in the fruit bowl. I just shook my head at the kitchen. My mother is rolling in her grave at the state it is in. On the counter by the back door were three empty jars, two empty boxes, old mail, a box of kitchen garbage bags, and a can of Johnson's paste wax. There was no rhyme or reason for any of it. From another counter, I tossed a plate of Christmas cookies and a bag of Chinese noodles and put three plastic containers away.

After filling up two black garbage bags with food and other trash, I headed out to throw them away. The patio and driveway hadn't been touched, and the snow/ice had melted enough to refreeze into solid ice. I was terrified of Dad trying to take something out to the trash or slipping on the way to his car, so I got out my snow shovel and began chipping away at the ice. I was able to get a path up the driveway and to the house so could get in and out safely. I also shoveled a path to the trash cans so he wouldn't fall if he took any garbage out.

I was coming in to start on Dad's dirty laundry when the phone rang. It was school. They had tried me on my cell, which I didn't hear, then called Kirk who gave them Dad's number. Emily was sick with a headache, stomach ache, and fever of 100.5. Dad was still gone, but I was thinking he should be back pretty soon, so I told the school nurse that it would maybe be an hour before I could get there to pick up Emily.

I got the sausages on a tray and put them in the freezer, put the jars and boxes in the recycling, and wrote a note to Dad letting him know I had leave to get a sick kid. I headed to school and got Emily, stopped by the grocery for soup and popsicles, and came home and got her settled. She was pretty puny, but I put Nick Jr. on, and she was content.

It was getting onto 1:30, and I knew today would be cold, so I fired up the chainsaw and started working in my yard. It was pretty fun chopping things up. I made quick work of the branches we had left out front and got a stack of reasonably sized firewood going. I am not going to split logs ever again as long as I can help it!

By 3, the kids came home from school, and I had to take Kyle to guitar lessons. It was the first time I'd sat down all day, and it was good. After lessons, I worked in the yard a bit more, threw in some laundry, and started dinner.

I called Dad to see if the roof man had come (he had) and what was done. The branches are still on the roof, but there is a tarp over the hole. I told Dad he would have to call the insurance man to get the name of some tree guys to come get the branches down off the roof. I reinforced that insurance will only cover the removal of the tree from the house, so he might want to get other estimates for removing the rest of the debris, etc. Dad said, "Wait a minute, I had a thought." He was quiet for a second and then said, "Now who do I have to call tomorrow?" I almost cried.

Kirk got home from guard duty and I handed him the reins. He took Kyle to basketball practice from 7:30-9, and I sat on the couch and watched basketball on TV. My team lost. The perfect end to the kind of day I had.

I took Emily to the doctor this morning, and she has strep throat. She'll be off tomorrow too. Someone came to my door wanting "$400 cash money" to clean up my yard, but I was too cheap to pay for something I can do myself. I have a couch full of clothes to fold and more laundry to do. Kyle has to be at the science fair at school by 5:15 and then the first game of the city basketball tournament is at 8 at another school's gym. Kirk will be on duty in Frankfort until ?, and I have one kid with strep and only one of me, so I guess she'll have to go and sit on my lap and not breathe on anyone. The snow keeps falling, and I am cold, and I hate being cold.

And so it goes...