Sometimes a clever title eludes me. This is one of those times.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Went to Weaver Street in the morning, enjoyed lovely weather with lovely friends. Not necessarily in that order. A Trader Joe's run, home to drop off the haul, and then made myself go over to Mom's.
She saw me coming, "My daughter's here!" Sometimes she surprises me. Like when she knows me.
I gather up all the dirty clothes she had folded up and put on the bed, get her to take off the two dirty shirts and put on one clean one.
"I don't want to dress like a woman like that!"
A woman like what? A woman with a clean shirt?
Different day, same...well, you know.
"There's all the people we know." pointing to a photo collage of my brother's family.
She has a large framed baby picture of me, of course it's in the closet, facing the wall.
I hold it up next to my face. I have about the same number of chins now as I did then.
She chortles, "That's me!"
No, that's me, when I was a baby.
"Yes, a baby."
She puts her face on the picture.
There's a modest display on the shelf, nothing like my brother's shrine.
"These are my things that I like," she says, patting the picture.
I took that picture.
"You did? Well, it's very good."
When I show her the picture above on the camera she says, "I don't look like that!"
I know the feeling sister.
We headed to the cafeteria. "Good job Bud, keep it up," she encourages a jogger.
"What have you been doing? Slipping around?"
Pretty sure I haven't been doing that since I don't know what it means. (did she mean sleeping around?! Haven't been doing that either.)
"How are your kids?" It's probable she means the cats, so I tell her they're all fine.
Bratty as ever, Finn's probably sleeping on the table as we speak.
She thinks that's funny.
The old favorite, chicken fingers, is back on her radar. Potato salad, peaches, watermelon, and buttered coconut pie round out her early supper.
I tuck her napkin into her shirt. Last week she refused to lean forward when taking a bite and dropped about every other forkful down the front of her shirt. I have a vested interest in keeping food on the napkin now, being her laundry service and all.
Not using the appropriate utensil doesn't help. Yesterday she tried to eat her potato salad and peaches with her knife, ate part of the watermelon with her fork, scooped up potato salad with a piece of chicken. She gets really mad when I suggest that another implement would work better.
Starts to drink the honey mustard sauce from the little cup.
She glares at me. Grabs a spoon.
Dip your chicken in it.
"What is that you're eating?", she pointed at the notebook I was writing in.
"800 of getting that stuff."
"You don't think much."
No, guess I don't.
She laughs, "We both have that."
She tucks her napkin back into her shirt, "It'll be down to my heels." Laughs.
Five minutes later when I repeat it back to her, she doesn't remember saying that. But still thinks it's funny.
I raise and lower my eyebrows at her and she calls me a flirt.
We take a drive towards Carrboro. I've noticed she gets slurry and makes even less sense after eating. Wonder if her blood sugar is high or low?
We sit out on the porch for a few minutes with two other ladies when we get back. Mom makes faces at me when they talk, mocking them. So bizarre.
I take her laundry and go home.