Close Call

Thanks for all your kind words yesterday in the comments.  I am hoping that my brother decides to find another caregiver for my elderly father soon (no easy task, I know that); in the meantime, I just had to vent.  Her arrogance just stunned me.  How hard is it to be kind?

And, in good news, I narrowly avoided incurring hundreds of dollars in damages today.  You see, when I park, I normally choose to park far away from other cars.  But today I had Susie in the car, and it was raining; so, against my better judgment, I tried to angle in between a mid-size truck and a mini-Cooper that, unfortunately, began to pull out just as I was pulling in to my space.  Startled, I edged too much to my right and heard the horrific sound of SCRAAAAAAPE as I parked.

I swear, it was deafening.

A very dangerous place...

I had to back up (again, "SCRAAAAAAPE" - ouch), swing to the left, and park before I could jump out and survey the damage, all the while exercising superhuman restraint to hold in a whole slew of swear words as I pictured the repair bill that would soon be winging its way toward me -- all because I had been too lazy to park in the outer reaches of the lot.  Dammit, I kept saying (to myself) as I unbuckled and walked around the back of my van.  What the heck happened?  How could I have done something SO STUPID?  And what was the point of visiting a crowded shopping center for a 2-for-1 pizza special if I'm going to end up paying the equivalent of 48 pizzas to fix someone else's car?

And then?  A miracle.  The truck I sideswiped happened to have those bumpers that are made of a rubbery plastic, along with raised trim around the wheel wells made of the same.  Not a scratch.  Nothing.  I looked at my car, which hadn't fared quite so well; but still, a scratch down the passenger side of my own vehicle was a small price to pay for my lack of parking expertise.

I unbuckled Susie and showed her that Mommy really hadn't done any damage (because we all KNOW Larry would hear her report first thing when he walked in the door at dinnertime, right?).  As we were standing there marveling at the resiliency of whatever material that bumper was made of, a youngish guy carrying some takeout lunch approached the truck, looking a tad puzzled at the sight of my matronly self fondling his wheel well trim.

"Oh, hi!" I said to him, almost giddy.  "I thought I wrecked your car, but I didn't!  See?  Nothing!"

"Um, yeah?" he said, apparently unsure of the proper etiquette in such situations.

"Yeah, look!" I said, gesturing at the bumper.  "See?  I scraped all along here, but there's no mark!"

Still eyeing me uneasily, he turned his attention to his truck and even ran his hands over the area I indicated to check for damage.

"See?"  I said.  "Perfectly all right!"  He still looked puzzled.  "Look at my car!" I told him.  "Now THAT's a scratch!  But your truck is fine!"  He looked and nodded, hesitantly.

"So, uh, we're good, right?" I asked, uncertain myself as to how to proceed.  "Do you want my info?"

"Um, no," he said.  "No, that's okay," and hurried into his vehicle.

Gosh, you'd think he'd be more grateful to me for not wrecking his truck, right?

Stranded

Well!  I've gone missing (not that anyone necessarily noticed), because I took a quick train ride up to see my dad, who had recently gotten out of the hospital and who has a new caregiver.

She came with a sterling recommendation, my brother says.  She feeds my father super-healthy food and keeps him impeccably clean.  Soon after I arrived, this caregiver (an older Jamaican woman I will hereafter refer to as the Voodoo Priestess) handed him his sunglasses.  Frustrated, my dad tossed them on the floor, where they disappeared under a cabinet.  Before we could stop him, he got down on his hands and knees to look for them; and, of course, he couldn't get back up.  I ran to help him, while the caregiver stayed where she was and scolded him.  "What are you doing down there?  What are you thinking?  Don't do that again!"

Me: "Could give me a hand here?  He's stuck.  I need help lifting him."

VP: "He shouldn't be doing that!  Who does he think he is?  He is not to throw his sunglasses!"  She walked over to him and bent over, in order to berate him more effectively.  "Stop that!"

Me: "I think we need to pick him up.  You can yell at him later, okay?"

Yikes.

Later, referring to his birthday, I mentioned to her my dad's advanced age.  "Stop that!" the voodoo priestess yelled, at me this time.  "Time - it is a human construct.  It means NOTHING.  He is not old.  You are making him old.  It is all in his MIND."

As the weekend progressed, it turned out that a lot of things were all in his mind: his age, his spreading cancer, his allergies that were making his eyes swell and his nose run constantly - all constructs of the mind.  "Look," I told her.  "He needs antihistamines.  He has some here, so he must have taken them before."

She looked askance at the proffered bottle.  "These - these pills are POISON.  They are no good.  I can make him better.  These pills - they CANNOT."

Words fail me at describing the weekend.  The caregiver's arrogance, her bullying, her anger - and my brother sitting there, saying, "Yeah, but she cooks really well."  I left for the train home, sick at heart.  The voodoo priestess had no interest in learning who my father was - no interest in hearing that he was a Depression-era child, raised on a farm and - later - in Brooklyn; a young man drafted into the US Army to fight WWII; a soldier who helped liberate the camps that were full of his Old World relatives; a father who had lived in this same house for over 60 years, who worked hard to pay for it and to raise his children in it.  A man who used to have friends, friends that are all now long gone.

My father is a person stranded in time, left behind, as it were, an old man burdened with half a memory -- and a caregiver lacking even a modicum of humility in the face of a long life bravely lived.

[Fun fact - Jerry Garcia is playing steel guitar in this version of "Teach Your Children."]

Backwards And In High Heels

Larry and David are out this evening, at the homeschool prom. 

Gosh, that sounds like the beginning of a bad joke, doesn't it?  The homeschool prom, part Geography Bee, part Bible verse recitation contest! 

Larry is one of the chaperones.  David, let it be said, has attended under duress, having no interest whatsoever in an event that does not involve airplanes or computers.  Given that most of his friends will be in attendance, we're pretty sure he'll have a good time, anyway.  And besides, I was just dying to see him in a tie.

David can't do ANY of this with his hair.

Let me say right here, it is way easier to send a boy to the prom than a girl.  During the years Anna attended prom, several weeks would be spent in search of the right dress and shoes.  On the day of the big event, she would depart about 3:00 in the afternoon for a friend's house, where a number of girls were assembling with dresses, shoes, full make-up kits, and hair accessories at the ready.  (And let me praise the saintly nature of the mother who hosted this gathering.)  The girls then spent upwards of 2 hours preparing their toilettes and modifying their dresses to suit the dress code, before they set out for the actual prom location. 

David, on the other hand, wandered into his room at 5:30 this afternoon, threw on his khaki pants, dress shirt, blazer, and dress shoes; he then sauntered downstairs, where Larry showed him how to put on one of his ties.  They walked out the door at 5:45, leaving me feeling as though we must have forgotten something.  15 minutes?  Really?

No wonder guys always seem so much less stressed.


[Bonus points to anyone who recognizes where the title of this post comes from!]

[Prom hair image: Camille - La Vie]

Wheels For Women Approaching 50

SCARY

You know how, occasionally, you are inconvenienced by having to view a small ad atop one of my posts?  Well, those pesky ads have earned me a brand new bicycle.  I did have a bicycle, already, actually -- one of those skinny-tires, turned-over-handlebars type of conveyance that I used to be able to ride, way back when.  But I'm older now, and I've developed a healthy fear of all these stupid squirrels that dash out in front of me on the bike path; also, I'm terrified of the possibility of falling and breaking every bone in my body and being bedridden for 3 months, as my children grow feral and my house becomes worthy of being condemned.  The upshot of which is that I haven't actually ridden my bicycle in almost 10 years.

A decade.

So, last fall, as I tried to jog after my 3 youngest on their bikes on our way to ChikFilA, it occurred to me that I needed to procure a more middle-age-friendly bicycle.  One that doesn't put me way high up in the air, one without a bar that gets in the way should I need to dismount suddenly.

An old lady bike.

Electra Townie 21D - my new ride

 I saw this recommended over at MamaPundit;  see how the pedals are placed forward of the seat, so you don't have to sit as high up?  As soon as I had enough money saved up, I marched over to my local bike shop (with Larry and Susie in tow) to check it out.


Do you know how hard it is to get back on a bicycle after a decade away?  I was shaking.  "C'mon, pedal," Larry hissed in my ear, while the (ridiculously young) bike shop guy stared at me and wondered why the hell I wasn't testing the bicycle already.  "I can't," I hissed back. What saved me was Susie standing there, expectantly, saying, "Try it, Mommy!"  How could I lose face in front of my youngest?  No way.  So I lowered that seat as far down as it would go, and wobbled off into the sunset.

This isn't a paid promotion; I'm just excited about my new bike, and I figure there are other women of a certain age out there that are looking for something similar.  But, hey, if the makers of the Electra Townie want to throw that fun handlebar market basket my way, I totally wouldn't mind.  I think it would complete the old-lady look nicely.

A Crotchety Plea For Old-Fashioned Play

Further evidence that the world is going to heck in a handbasket - toddlers addicted to electronic devices.  Do I even need to comment on this?  Do you realize that, when I first started raising my kids over 21 years ago, all I had to worry about was keeping them from watching too much TV?  This was an extraordinarily easy proposition, considering that we couldn't afford cable and that our TV at the time was a 13-inch hand-me-down with a fuzzy screen. 

Now?  I still have young-ish kids, and attempting to keep them mostly screen-free is becoming a somewhat quixotic quest, one that -- at times -- almost makes me weep.  Their friends come over with the Internet in their pockets.  I have to confiscate smartphones and similar devices at the door.  (Yes, I'm THAT mom.)  Of course, at their friends' houses, there are probably different rules.  I have to trust that the parents at least restrict the kids to somewhat harmless content.

Healthier than Minecraft.  Really.

But it isn't really the content so much that bothers me.  It's the activity (or lack thereof) itself.  It's not the screen time, per se, but what screen time replaces.  Remember Legos?  Board games?  Cards?  Jump rope?  Any of those activities are healthier for a developing brain than gazing at a screen, no matter how clever or complex the game displayed thereon might be. 

You see, staring at a screen makes the child a consumer, not a creator.  I've watched my kids playing, and I'm not impressed with what I see.  The child behaves like a sophisticated sort of lab rat, trained to push the right levers to get its rewards.  The body posture, the focus on the screen, the jerky movements, the constant pushing to the next level - NOT NORMAL.  These games, fun as they might be, are only poor 21st-century substitutes for real play.

Real play - does anyone even know what that is, anymore?


[Child with IPad: The Telegraph]
[Monopoly: Freewebs]