To Be Or Not To Be ?

Today Wee Wesley , who is not so wee anymore now that he is 2 and 1/2, was playing happily with some new Matchbox cars in the living room  I decided it would be a great time to finish a few invoices and get them in the mail. I was working at the computer, about 15 feet away from him, when I felt his chubby , warm, little hand pull my hand off the mouse. He said very quietly, "Be with me Yaya."

Thats all he wanted. He did not say PLAY with me or READ to me or FEED me , he just wanted me to BE. Not an easy request. I pride myself on my multi-tasking skills. (Pride. That is a whole 'nother long blog) I do not sit well. But today I did. I let him lead me into the living  room, away from my oh- so- important work and I watched while he went back to playing. First he let the yellow truck go down the ramp he built from a cardboard box, and then the blue truck. Occasionally, the black car  would get a chance but he clearly favored the blue truck. Eventually, I did have to make lunch for him, his grandfather and his uncle but for awhile Wes and I were just BEING together.

Several hours later, I visited my 91 year old Aunt Bernie. Usually on Mondays when I visit her, I do several things at once. I fill her med box, collect her dirty laundry, change her pillow case, maybe clean some, all the while chatting with her. Today, I sat and listened. Well, first I made a cup of coffee. I'm no saint. But I tried very hard to BE still with her, to enjoy her, to really see and hear her. To experience the stories about her father and my father, again.  Because tomorrow she could so easily BE ...gone.

Big sisters Allana (left) and Nicole (right) obviously very happy  just BEING with newborn brother Wesley

Caught between a sock and a hard place.

July 21, 2009

My Aunt Bernie is 90, residing in an assisted living facility near me. She moved there after living independently all of her adult life. For the majority of that life she cared for a mentally retarded sister (Down Syndrome had not been invented at that time, so my deceased Aunt Teresa will always be lovingly referred to as "retarded" in our family). Her devotion kept my Aunt Teresa at home free of institutionalization, even though she functioned only at the level of a three year old. In the 70's when My Aunt Bernies father became ill she took care of him also. Offered marriage and perhaps an escape from her family obligations, she declined. Several times.

Now its my turn to take care of her but SHE WILL NOT LET ME WASH HER SOCKS !! I visit my aunt 2-3 times a week and another sister of mine sees her when I am unable. Together we do her housekeeping, medications, shopping and laundry . Except the friggin' socks. My Aunt insists on washing them herself. She rinses them out every night and hangs them in the bathroom to dry, or on the back of her chair, or the doorknob. They are not getting very clean. She is losing the ability to scrub. This follows immediately after losing the ability to tell fresh milk from sour milk, which is why we do not buy her milk for her little frig anymore, just single serving juice.

So when I visit and see the socks I will sneek them into my laundry bag to take home and wash properly. Yesterday she sees me doing this and yells "What the hell are you doing !?" I state the obvious, "I'm taking your socks home to make puppets out of them to distribute to the arts deprived children of Appalachia." She does not fall for that story. She may be confused at times, but never gullible. "The hell you are !", she responds. "Put them back where you found them, if I can't wash my own socks you might as well throw me over that railing there." She has a small balcony off her studio apt. She's been using the throw-me-off-the-balcony-threat more and more. I do appreciate the drama of it.

So I put the socks back on the edge of the tub. But when she came into the bathroom to get ready for supper, I took several pair out of her socks out of her dresser drawer and hid them in my purse. When she finds out I am going to be sooooo grounded.