You learn things. Every day, you learn things, which is good because, at an advanced age (me!), if your mind stops processing new information, you'll walk yourself straight into a state of brain atrophy and resultant dementia. Still, some things you enjoy learning, other things -- maybe not so much. For example, I'd love to get back to refreshing my French. Instead, I'm stuck in a quagmire of forms and paperwork and details of someone else's (my mother's) life. And I don't care who that person is -- delving into their minutia is always a little... disconcerting.
But, as I said, you learn things: about yourself, and certainly about the person whose care has fallen into your lap.
First, though, there is breakfast. Somewhat rushed, because I have a lot to accomplish today. No kids -- they're spending time with their dad this afternoon. Just me and the chores.
I drive to my mom's apartment downtown. You can track the state of Lake Monona by these trips of mine! Lightly frozen today, with a thin coating of snow.
One of the day's tasks is to offload her couch. She wont need it, she doesn't want it anymore. Ed put it up on Craigslist and it's been an adventure. Each time someone wants to look at it, I have to drive downtown, so I limit viewing times to when I can take the time to be there. Today's viewer comes, admires it, asks me if I thought it would fit into his minivan (I've no idea!), breaks a lamp while measuring it (even though we'd provided measurements in the listing), leaves a twenty dollar deposit and says "I'll be back." Okay...
While there, I give myself the job of cleaning out my mom's kitchen of food. I thought this would be easy. Not so. Turns out my mom is a collector of not only papers but foods. I take four heavy loads of canned and boxed foods downstairs to the communal table. Lots and lots of duplicates, or triplicates. For example, a very interesting collection of unopened jars of cinnamon. A person could learn a lot about my eating habits by looking at the farmhouse pantry. I surely learn a ton about my mom's tastes and inclinations by examining what's there, hidden in the back of her cabinets.
Then comes the paperwork. I'm looking for one particular document and I find it, but in my search, I come across all those neatly filed pages upon pages, thousands of pages of, well, everything. Ed and I have by now moved most of her current life from all those folders to the internet. But some things remain stuck in the old world of a paper trail.
My life, Ed's life, our records and receipts -- these are by now online rather than in a folder stuck on a shelf or banker box. Still, I am from a generation of mixed computer skills. I think I'm medium savvy in working with this stuff online. Ed is of course super savvy. But, many people are less adept and far less trusting of cyber space. So the generation that follows us will have some clean up work: figuring out parents lives will be easy for some and a bit more muddled for those who have parents hanging onto the internet by a thread.
And here's a reminder to all of you: do leave a document for your sweetie or your kids with relevant user id and password information, so that they can access your accounts after you accidentally slip and fall into the lake and drown. Without a paper trail, they'll have a heck of a time cracking your codes if you don't leave them with some guidance.
In the afternoon, the couch viewer calls back. He wants to come late tonight and pick it up. Along with the hutch over the desk. (He'd asked if the hutch is sturdy enough -- he's got kids. I mean, I think it is, but what do I know! Should I worry about his kids? Should I tell him -- no, I can't feel responsible? Ed laughs: it's his decision, his responsibility, gorgeous. Not yours. Craigslist is like that: buyer beware! You could sell some child-killing-recalled device and be fine. Ed! What a horrible idea! Just sayin'...)
I want to say no. My evenings are sacred. It's our popcorn moment of calm. We remind him that there's always the weekend...
He writes back: my wife really wants it before the weekend. Smiley face.
The thing is, I know that craving to have a settled space.
Okay, I'll be there.
An hour later, another email: no, not tonight after all. How about tomorrow night?
Sigh... All this for a few more dollars for my mom's purse. Why not just donate the damn couch to a needy place? Too late now -- I got his $20. Ah, but why complain? I'm in our warm farmhouse with the twinkling winter lights. I fix a supper of stir fried shrimp and sauteed veggies. Ed promises pop corn later on.
But, as I said, you learn things: about yourself, and certainly about the person whose care has fallen into your lap.
First, though, there is breakfast. Somewhat rushed, because I have a lot to accomplish today. No kids -- they're spending time with their dad this afternoon. Just me and the chores.
I drive to my mom's apartment downtown. You can track the state of Lake Monona by these trips of mine! Lightly frozen today, with a thin coating of snow.
One of the day's tasks is to offload her couch. She wont need it, she doesn't want it anymore. Ed put it up on Craigslist and it's been an adventure. Each time someone wants to look at it, I have to drive downtown, so I limit viewing times to when I can take the time to be there. Today's viewer comes, admires it, asks me if I thought it would fit into his minivan (I've no idea!), breaks a lamp while measuring it (even though we'd provided measurements in the listing), leaves a twenty dollar deposit and says "I'll be back." Okay...
While there, I give myself the job of cleaning out my mom's kitchen of food. I thought this would be easy. Not so. Turns out my mom is a collector of not only papers but foods. I take four heavy loads of canned and boxed foods downstairs to the communal table. Lots and lots of duplicates, or triplicates. For example, a very interesting collection of unopened jars of cinnamon. A person could learn a lot about my eating habits by looking at the farmhouse pantry. I surely learn a ton about my mom's tastes and inclinations by examining what's there, hidden in the back of her cabinets.
Then comes the paperwork. I'm looking for one particular document and I find it, but in my search, I come across all those neatly filed pages upon pages, thousands of pages of, well, everything. Ed and I have by now moved most of her current life from all those folders to the internet. But some things remain stuck in the old world of a paper trail.
My life, Ed's life, our records and receipts -- these are by now online rather than in a folder stuck on a shelf or banker box. Still, I am from a generation of mixed computer skills. I think I'm medium savvy in working with this stuff online. Ed is of course super savvy. But, many people are less adept and far less trusting of cyber space. So the generation that follows us will have some clean up work: figuring out parents lives will be easy for some and a bit more muddled for those who have parents hanging onto the internet by a thread.
And here's a reminder to all of you: do leave a document for your sweetie or your kids with relevant user id and password information, so that they can access your accounts after you accidentally slip and fall into the lake and drown. Without a paper trail, they'll have a heck of a time cracking your codes if you don't leave them with some guidance.
In the afternoon, the couch viewer calls back. He wants to come late tonight and pick it up. Along with the hutch over the desk. (He'd asked if the hutch is sturdy enough -- he's got kids. I mean, I think it is, but what do I know! Should I worry about his kids? Should I tell him -- no, I can't feel responsible? Ed laughs: it's his decision, his responsibility, gorgeous. Not yours. Craigslist is like that: buyer beware! You could sell some child-killing-recalled device and be fine. Ed! What a horrible idea! Just sayin'...)
I want to say no. My evenings are sacred. It's our popcorn moment of calm. We remind him that there's always the weekend...
He writes back: my wife really wants it before the weekend. Smiley face.
The thing is, I know that craving to have a settled space.
Okay, I'll be there.
An hour later, another email: no, not tonight after all. How about tomorrow night?
Sigh... All this for a few more dollars for my mom's purse. Why not just donate the damn couch to a needy place? Too late now -- I got his $20. Ah, but why complain? I'm in our warm farmhouse with the twinkling winter lights. I fix a supper of stir fried shrimp and sauteed veggies. Ed promises pop corn later on.
