Two Months Earlier:

Mister: Baby showers aren’t for men. Why should I go? It won’t be any fun.

Self: People don’t attend baby showers because they’re so goddamn fun, they don’t think they can live with themselves for missing the party of the century. It’s not about doing belly button shots off the mother or comparing plasma TVs with the person next to you. It isn’t about you. It’s about sharing excitement with the future parents and showing your support.

Today:

It isn’t about me either. At least it shouldn’t be….

I’m having difficulty wrapping my brain around this. In December, the Mister will become a Grandfather, Grandpa, Granddaddy, Gramps, or a Pa Pa, and I’m going to be a…oh, fuck can, we just not talk about that part at the moment? He’s excited, his Son is excited, his DIL is excited. I’m excited too, because excitement is contagious, just like PMS.

I am so out of my league here.

I don’t know what to do with babies. I don’t know how to hold them, or burp them. How many month’s do I have left to say fuck, before she repeats it? I don’t want to be the asshole that teaches the first grandchild to drop the f-bomb. Diapers? Only if you provide me with a barf bag and there will probably be two messes to clean up. Imagine if Hiroshima had been a cowfield. But these messy little rituals I’m obsessing over are the easy part. Throw down a drop cloth, buy a respirator, snatch the salad tongues from the kitchen drawer, and drape a protective garment over you shoulder. Adapt, or hand the baby back to her mother.

It’s the expectations that have me wrapped around the axle. The Mister and his family have expectations of what roles people should play, but determining those expectations is like hunting for ground pepper in an urn. It is against the family code of conduct to spell out expectations beyond the initial exchange of wedding vows.

You shouldn’t say fuck in front of his parents, nor should react negatively if Ole One Eye say something racist or bigoted (I’m not defending him, but this is a common characteristic of his generation. Suddenly my saying fuck doesn’t sound so bad). You must compliment his mother, and pretend you don’t notice her upper denture plate is not secured to the roof of her mouth as she keeps clicking it in place with her tongue. Don’t say anything suggestive in front of this brother, you’ll embarrass him. Never mention the squealing hearing aids. Don’t mention this person’s DUI. Never mention Ole One Eye is mentally declining. You are not allowed to defend yourself if someone verbally attacks you. You do not buy Mrs One Eye long sleeved shirts. You always hold hands. You must hug them even though their hygiene is marginal. You never discuss their poor hygiene. You must pretend Mrs One Eye can hear. You should pretend you share the same religion. You must pretend like you aren’t offended when Ole One says something chauvinistic, or Mrs. One Eye says something misogynistic. You should pretend women are the lesser sex and were bred specifically to wait on lazy southern white men and hand and foot.

I re-read my vows this week, and none of these items were mentioned, though there was something about being supportive. Supportive isn’t a euphemism for loophole, is it?

Part if this depends upon the Mister, and what type of grandparent he chooses to be. His relationship with his son during the adolescent years was a rocky. Son raised his share of Hell, and the Mister was frequently absent due to the amount of travel required for his job. Son was frequently the Man of the House accounting for a power shift as he got older. They get along well today, but I see subtle signs of the stress the relationship endured, and I wonder how, or if it will impact the next stage in their relationship. The Mister may be so infatuated with the little person that all else ceases to matter. These are the Mister’s choices and the loophole dictates I support him, though I would probably support him anyway, keeping in mind support doesn’t constitute unconditional agreement.

I wonder, who or what I will become, as I extend myself? I don’t anticipate any fundamental change in the person I am that core, but small adaptations, as harsh sarcasm has no place in a nursery. It’s not a question of power. I never had any in the Mister’s family. I frequently feel like a second class citizen. Sure, I am his second wife, but my opinion doesn’t carry much weight when it comes to his first family and the way they treat others. There is an assumption on his part that I should always see them through the same glasses as he, and have the same feelings toward them as he. Speaking out in my defense, or the defense of others is a form of betrayal, making the concept of grandhuh? more difficult to extrapolate.

My sister, a kindergarten teacher, mentioned her school showed a mixture of news and educational videos to the students. One video featured children sliding down hills on cardboard boxes. She remarked, it was sad when children’s’ best exposure to improvised play was a video monitor. When did creative play cease being a proactive experience and evolve in a documentary?

Later as, drove downtown, we noticed a few kids with cardboard boxes sliding down an overlook hill at Renaissance Park. Seeing them temporarily restored my faith in play. Maybe all hope isn’t lost, but it is slipping away.

I am at an age in which the generation gap expands. My niece and nephew’s generation are plugged in. Most of their free time is spent on video consoles, cell phones, web sites, television, or remote controls. Imagination is seldom challenged. Instead of entertaining themselves with noncommercial toys, or playing outdoors, they rely upon some artificially fabricated story line that dictates the game, and inhibits independent thinking. These kids are tech savvy, they will excel locating information on the web, and they are capable of setting the clock on the vcr, provided it hasn’t been banished to a landfill, but will they encourage their own children to pretend and improvise, or will they just entertain them?

Sunday, the kids requested returning to the park before they left town. The Mister and conspired to haul moving boxes, a tape gun, and a box cutter to the observation hill. Within five minutes of the first box launch, three college girls showed up with cardboard. Later, more kids showed up. The excitement was contagious, and there was no age restriction. Maybe my sisters kids will remember to share simple experiences with their kids and encourage the procreation of creativity.

I won’t apologize for not posting, but I am shocked by how quickly the last eight days evaporated. We found ourselves making preparations up until the hour family arrived. All the tasks weren’t necessary, but the visit served as a catalyst for household progress. The Mister finished building a retaining wall, I transplanted eight shrubs and planted adagio grass and roses. We had a plumber replace the small diameter galvanized pipe running through the house. We finished hanging pictures, and added a mirror in the guest bath.

QT saved the day with an ass expanding pulled pork recipe. I made minor adjustments to account for cooking on a gas grill, and used two commercially prepared sauces. I baled on making biscuits, and purchased rolls and sourdough from the local bakery to keep things simple. I will try the biscuit recipe later, when my mother isn’t around to tell me I am doing it wrong.

I like meals that can be prepared in advance. Then, I can drink as much wine as I need.

The family arrived and the excitement was palatable. The visit started with me swearing loudly when a small deluge erupted from the toilet into the hallway. We’ve lived here six months without a single toilet incident. Never underestimate the power of a seven-year-old and a roll of TP. In her overzealousness to remedy the clog, she broke the flush lever. We had a surplus of spare parts, and towels. The problem was resolved quickly due to the Mister’s determination, and that was the most eventful incident during the entire visit.

Saturday, we drove to the local apple orchard for apples and honey before dropping my sister’s family downtown at the aquarium. Mom has difficulty walking, standing, and sitting for long periods of time so her days are careful juxtapositions of managing the three activities in quantities she can bare. She’s too proud, or stubborn, to admit when she’s tired or in pain, so I constantly second guess myself as the appropriateness of the suggested activities. I don’t want her to be tired or bored, but placing yourself in someone else’s head is an ineffective means of communication.

We took Mom downtown to a coffee house that was renowned for roasting their own beans. It was a quaint area with a view of the river and a nice sculpture garden. After lunch, we drove to an overlook for a view of the ridge line, and then dropped at the house for a break.

For the evening, we packed pulled pork sandwiches, chips, sodas, and a picnic blanket, and drove to Coolidge park for an evening picnic. The temperature was pleasant, the bugs were absent, and the kids amused themselves running through the fountain and playing frisbee. The kids had such a good time, they wanted to return the following day.

The visit was a success….in spite of the toilet.

I wonder how many people look forward to family visits without fear of being judged? Logically, I shouldn’t worry about such nonsense, but it’s always buried in a corner in my mind.

I suspect my family doesn’t completely understand why we moved. The assumption shared by both mine and the Mister’s families are you relocate because of job opportunities, or to be closer to family. Our move has made commuting an easier task for the Mister, and the cost of living is lower. Embedded in the benefits, lie the main reasons, which I don’t feel driven to explain. I don’t see any benefits in explaining how emotionally disconnected I felt in the geography, or the local attitudes about, politics, schooling, and environmental issues. The world felt small, and not in a good way, but in an oppressive growth inhibiting way.

The last thing I want to do is insult the places family and friends call home. They love the area, and it’s simplicity, and I am genuinely happy for them. I need more variety, and I would like an opportunity to grow, as a person, a wife, and maybe an artist.

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When I announced my move, my mother issued much big talk about visiting us. I knew she WANTED to visit, but the long trip would be difficult, and the dilemma of leaving her cats, her bed, and her smoke scented home could be thorny issues. We moved in April, and returned for a few days in May. By the middle of June, she was asking if We was coming back over the summer. We hadn’t been gone three full months. I should have felt flattered to be missed, but instead I was disgusted about the assumption I should making frequent trips.

When I lived an hour away, it was I always presumed I would drive to visit her, and I did. Of the five years we lived in the last house, she drove to our home maybe a dozen times. I drove to her home a dozen times a year, not counting the times I drove to a siblings house to visit her.

The issue isn’t which sibling she drove to visit more. The others have grandchildren, and we have ill-mannered cats. Driving isn’t comfortable for my mother, and health is a complete consideration. I’m not heartless, but I detest the presumption that I should do the right thing because I have a history of doing so. I know the road to hell is paved with good intentions, but I’m not the type of person who’s mood improves when you make idle threats, regardless of how noble your intentions. Say what you mean, and mean what you say. I accept at this stage in life I will be doing most of the traveling, but pretending it will be otherwise is a disservice to both of us.

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My sister and her family have tried to visit since July. They’ve scheduled at least four times. Each time, some extraordinary circumstance beyond their control has prevented them from coming. The number of days has remained constant, but the number of participants has ranged from three to five. We have one guest bedroom, an air mattress, and a comfortable couch. They can all play rock paper scissors to see who sleeps where, as I will be sleeping in my queen sized bed covered in cats.

The issue isn’t how many, as much as it is who. The who part relates to cooling. My BIL is a very picky specific eater. He is hypersensitive to spicy food and very LOUD about it. He has insulted my Mister about this. Typically, BIL will not eat food he doesn’t prepare himself. I try to prepare a dish or two of the non-spicy variety for him, whether he eats it or not.

Why bother, you might ask? My BIL has always been a most excellent and generous host, each time I have descended upon his home invited or not. I want to return the hospitality, though it may be a pain in the ass.

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My sister’s family scheduled their most recent visit for next weekend (hence, the toilet seat makeover). Initially there would be five guests. My sister’s family of four and my mother. Thanks sis!. Last week, my sister said her husband may or may not come. His class reunion was belatedly scheduled for the same weekend. I asked her for a final head count a few days in advance so I could prepare food. Saturday, my sister called to say they didn’t know if they would be able to come. This postponement was brought courtesy of an act of God (if you believe in that sort of thing). Gas shortage due to Hurricane Ike. As a cautionary measure, I tried to fill my tank Saturday, both stations on the mountain had sold out. If i were a believer, I’d question whether a visit from family was a good idea. Nonetheless, I should be prepared.

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To expect a household to maintain normalcy when they expand from two adults to four adults and two excited kids is unrealistic. If plans don’t fall through this will be a very noisy house next week. My family is loud and in constant competition to be heard. Talkers always outnumber listeners. Commotion wears me down and erodes my patience. I’m trying to make as many preparations in advance as I can to make things easy. I want to be good hostess, though it doesn’t come naturally. I want life in the kitchen to be easy, not stressful like every faily gathering I’ve attended since I was five. I know everything will not run smoothly, but the more preparations i have in order, the less scrambling required.

My goal is host a relaxing weekend for my family, that appears easy, even if it isn’t easy and I am not relaxed.

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Calling those who cook!

Okay, I prepare food, but I am not much of a southern cook. If anyone has a recipe for biscuits, or buttermilk biscuits, please share. I am also looking for tips on slow roasting a Boston Butt in the oven (our electric smoker is schizophrenic).

I am an enigma wrapped in a mystery. I was born in the land of home cookin’ but I don’t know how to make biscuits, sweet tea, fried chicken, gravy, or squash casserole. So you won’t lose all respect for me, I can make an ass-kicking sausage and lentil soup, blackened salmon, and rosemary garlic cornish game hens.

A friend once told me, “You can’t prevent a disaster from running it’s natural course.” She had four years of sobriety, a bankruptcy, an ex-husband, and a failed greyhound farm behind her. What she didn’t discuss, was how frustrating it is to calmly watch things go hell in a hand basket. That takes a special a special kind of zen or complete disregard for humanity.

I haven’t mentioned my in-laws since we screwed over the Mister’s younger brother moved. Aging has been a popular topic. I prefer not to dwell on the drama with the Mister’s parents, but others’ experiences can be useful when you attempt to map out your own.

In January I mentioned the possibility of the Mister’s parents, the One Eye, leaving the Assisted Living Facility and returning to their own home. In order for them to return, it is necessary for the house to be semi-gutted, painted, re-carpeted, cleaned, appliances, windows replaced, and sheet rock repaired. That doesn’t include the retrofitting required to make the house handicap accessible; handrails for bathrooms, ramp to enter the door.

The contractor hired was an abomination of ethics violations hand-delivered from Satan. The good news is eight months have passed, and the work is still incomplete. The bad news is the contractor started bypassing the Mister and his brother for advances and approval and went straight to Ole One Eye. I’m not sure what the final tab was on the remodeling, but I am certain the contractor abused the situation. Don’t rely upon the kindness of others when it comes looking after aging parents. You are their best advocate. Grace extended from others is a bonus not a given.

The return home has conditions. They will have constant supervision. One proposed plan is for the One Eyes to visit the home for 6-8 hours a day. They would leave the ALF in the morning, transported by caregivers spend the day at their home, and transported back the ALF in time for dinner to spend the night. This plan is favored by the sons. The back-up plan, is to return them to their home with twenty-four hour care. The back up plan is the back up plan only because there is a fear that once they return, they won’t be able to pry Mrs One Eye out of the place.

Being in excess of three hundred miles from the situation, affords me the luxury of not being affected by such a change, but it does not prevent me from giving a shit.

The cost of twenty-four hour care is obscene at best. At the most frugal cost, the services rendered are basic. Light housekeeping, light cooking, shopping, and transporting. Typically, the cheapest providers are not insured, and have minimal medical training, if any. The team of four which have been interviewed, have requested being paid in cash (Red flag, maybe?) There are agencies which offer the same service for a higher cost, but their staff have typically undergone background checks.

My SIL fears the One Eyes will go through caregivers like toilet paper, driving away any assistance that isn’t bound by an agency or a contract. Supposedly, the One Eyes will not have the power to hire and fire staff, that will be the sole domain of their sons. Even with a caregiver available to assist with cooking, cleaning, physical assistance. Mrs One Eye isn’t likely allow anyone to cook in her kitchen. Her kitchen and her paperwork are HER JOBS.

The son who still lives in the area and is responsible for their finances and the house remodel, has plans to build his home near the One Eyes’ homestead. I think his religious leanings have convinced him, this is the right thing to do, but emotionally, I don’t think he will be able to handle what it requires. True, he won’t be a twenty-four care giver, but should the hired staff fail to meet their obligations, I think he would expect his wife to. If you are unable to deal with your parents, I don’t think it is fair to expect your spouse.

I could offer a laundry list of friends, family, and physicians who believe it is a bad idea for the One Eyes to return home. I believe three out of four sons also think it is a bad idea. I don’t know why they persist in trying to actualize this disaster if they truly believe it is a bad idea. My inner uneducated freudian suspects their sons are seeking approval. It has been a lifelong quest of all yielding no acknowledgment, much less a reward. It saddens me on their behalf, yet my vicarious pity serves no useful purpose.

The silver lining is….
they remain heavily supervised in assisted living, and their house will not be ready for occupancy this month.

The not so silver lining…
Ole One Eye’s mental capacity is diminishing. He is hallucinating. He sees fleas fish eggs bees wasps. He isn’t nuts. This is symptomatic of a legitimate medical condition, for which there is medication available. No one seems to know why he isn’t on the medication, nor has anyone spoken to his primary physician about the psychosis or getting a referral to the appropriate physician. Ole One Eye is diminishing physically. He is no longer able to walk far, and he is very unsteady. He has abandoned most attempts at basic hygiene. The vision in his remaining eye has greatly diminished, and no longer reads or dials telephone numbers without assistance. Mrs. Ole One is probably shoving him into an early grave. She yells at him, she gets in his face, and she doesn’t let up about wanting to go home. Her strength is actually improving, but her basic understanding and comprehension are not.

These seniors can no longer be held responsible for their actions. All the hateful words, and manipulative statements are simply a means to an end. Like toddlers, their goal is to get what they want, nothing more and nothing less. Attempts to reason with them yield short-lived victories, because the One Eyes forget what they agreed to, or they discard it. Fear of being disrespectful, forever traps their sons in the process of negotiations. Respect is a two way relationship, not one of constant submission.