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Wonderland.

2009-12-06T03:43:00Z

It wasn’t until I had kids that my hatred for holiday music began to take form. It is not so much that I hate the sound of the done-one-too-many-times “Oh Holy Night” on the radio, nor is it that I loathe at the sound of my beautiful 6 year old daughter and her melodic voice. It’s that these two things streamed together is a lethal combination. It is almost as if they teach Kindergartener’s to loop their voices, telling them to sing the parts they know over. And over. And over. And so what if they’re wrong? Does a 6 year old pay any mind to lyrics? Or is it just something that irks me because I am a lyric buff? Take for example, yesterday, when Abbi asked me in arguably the most polite voice I’d ever heard, to please turn the radio off, as she was going to provide the soundtrack for our journey to grandma and grandpa’s house. Now I am no scrooge, and to prove this fact, I quickly- and hiding my reluctance- switched the music off and let her have at it. She began with an innocent rendition of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and at first, it was quite pleasant. Like I said, I am not a curmudgeon and am open to any musical talent my daughter may inhabit, but after the 27^th inevitable “he sees you when you’re sleeping”, I was wishing Mr. Claus would take flight early, and through faulty navigation, mistakenly land on my car and knock me into a coma. This is not to say that I wish harm on my children! I just wish that holiday songs would make themselves scarce this season. We are in a recession, aren’t we? They should follow suit.

I have also noticed that people develop a severe inability to drive as though they were ever issued a valid license. I understand that Miami is overcrowded. I understand that people do not comprehend the idea of a four way stop, or the right of way, or a merge lane. But why is it that during the season of cheer and bright lights, people’s incompetence comes out of the wood work like a red-tag sale? It seems as though they deliberately drive 15 miles slower than the speed limit when approaching a green light, and drive 35 miles over just to slam on their brakes at the red ones. And the idea that decorating one’s car to resemble a reindeer is festive? Who are they kidding? It is still just a 10 year old Hyundai, maybe even a Mazda, but definitely not in any way, shape, or form a contributing vessel for Santa and the overpriced gifts he bears in his sack. Or his reindeer. Or the elves. I don’t care how big the Lincoln Navigator is. It is still an SUV, not a sleigh. Get over it, so I can, too.

I know I sound like I hate the Holidays. I actually look forward to them, and this anticipation starts shortly after Halloween. I love Thanksgiving, although I think we have our own version of it. Still, that is kind of how the U.S.A. works; we sort of embellish the one good thing we did until it is completely stretched over all of the bad. Either way, I will eat turkey with a smile plastered on my face. I really do love Christmas, and if the fact that my mom is Jewish leads anyone to believe that this clearly explains my aversion to Holiday songs, one would be sadly misguided. I hate Chanukah songs just as much. I don’t enjoy “hiding Gelt”, which turns out is just dried out chocolate disguised as “gold coins” too big to really be anything other than pennies. I don’t enjoy reading from the Torah, with my senile Grandmother asking me why my breasts look smaller than they did last year. Maybe it’s something in the Matzo Ball soup? Jesus, I don’t know. I don’t understand why, up until I had my own child, I had to sit at the “kids table”. Do other families do this? It was even a real table. It was a folding card table with the expected uneven leg, so by the end of the meal that none of us enjoyed, the brisket had been knocked over at least 3 times. 3 times, you ask? Seeing as though the youngest of the “kids” at the “kids table” was carrying a restricted license and worked 20 hours a week at Publix, any time one of us “kids” would move slightly to the right or to the left, our knees would hit the underbelly of the table, hence disturbing the thawed out brisket that was probably saved from last year’s dinner. It’s a good thing we weren’t orthodox. Without electricity on high holy days, how would we have re-used frozen food?

I am calm now. There are 20 days left to enjoy before Christmas morning arrives. I need to gather my sanity, as it has been scattered around various parts of the Miami area, and start shopping for my daughters. I can’t wait to see the look on their faces when they wake up Christmas morning to discover what Santa Claus has brought them. Why, just today, Mr. Claus was making his rounds at Publix and Abbi, my six year old, did not believe it was him. “Santa does not grocery shop, Grandma; besides, he looks way too young to be Santa. He looks like a KID.” She said these words to my mother, adamantly.

Maybe, just maybe, it won’t be long before we can dislike holiday music together. Until then, I will keep my radio off and let her sing the soundtrack to all of my journeys in life, whether it’s Christmas songs or not. After all, being a parent to daughters as great as mine makes me feel like every day is a holiday. I can grin and grit through one more rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, as long as they promise to grant me one Silent Night on December 26^th.

Fire and Rain

2009-10-21T01:35:00Z

Thank God for cell phones and their unwavering ability to send and retrieve picture messages. This is how I will always remember finding out that my best friend in the whole wide world is pregnant. I don’t use the term “best friend” lightly. There is heaviness and a responsibility towards another person when you step into that role, and I am certain that she has filled those shoes like no other. She has small feet, and she isn’t very tall, but she took a stand when it was absolutely necessary and has never judged me when I- the taller of the two and the one with bigger feet- sat down defeated, lost my balance and fell on my face.

I remember telling her I was pregnant with Abbi, my 6 year old, before I even told my parents. I was 20 years old, hopeful, and nervous. She was delirious with excitement. I remember thinking, “Yeah, you’re happy, but I’m the one having a kid at 20.” After Abbi was born, she sent me a card, telling me how proud she was of me as a mother and how I had made such a happy home for my daughter. I asked Maria to be Abbi’s Godmother, and she said she was honored. I am not big into religion and I know that whatever amount of God Amelie believes in, it’s enough for me. Amelie and I have always been in each other’s lives, more often than not. I have missed out on one very big milestone of Amelie’s, but this venture will not be one of them.

I received another text today from her and she seemed nervous about becoming a mom. I am no expert, but because I had Abbi so young, many hours of my life have been spent Googling, reading, and asking my pediatrician LISTS of questions about my daughter. When I was pregnant with Alyvia, I “reintroduced” myself to the joys of infancy, but I also became research-obsessed with the pregnancy itself. Effacement, dilation, mucous plugs, when you can and can no longer take a warm bath: you name it, I read up on it.

I loved being pregnant, I loved having a newborn, and I love being a mother.

I love the fact that Amelie is going to be a mother, and this is what I want to say to her:

You will second guess every decision you make. From the time you see the two lines on the pee stick- or the digital readout, circa 2009!!- you will ask yourself if you are ready, and you will tell yourself you are not. You will never be ready. You will wake up in the morning and look down at your belly and wonder about the life that is forming inside of you, because of you, and you will revel in that. You will get out of bed and place your hands on the swell of your abdomen and speak silently to your baby, and to yourself. You will wonder if the water from the shower head is too hot for your skin now. Should you adjust it? Is their literature on this? You will want to know. When you are drying your hair, you will wonder if your baby can hear the noise. Is it too loud? (For the first 3 weeks of Lyv’s life, she would only fall asleep if I kept the blow dryer on. Smart kid. She appreciates the efforts of great hair.)

When you eat breakfast, you will think about the amount of coffee you are drinking. It is okay. You can have 2 cups a day. Trust me. You will wonder about lunch. Is deli meat okay? Yes, it is. Can I still enjoy tuna fish? Yes, you can, as long as you are not consuming more than 2 cans a week. And what about a glass of wine once in a while after the first trimester? Please. Don’t risk it.

When you drive to work, you will be ever so careful when you buckle your seat belt. Soon, it will be uncomfortable to have that strap digging into your belly. You will watch every single car to your right, left, in front and behind you. You will know who is turning left, turning right, who is merging, and who is just an asshole. When you are pregnant, everyone on the road is an asshole because they are in your way and they can harm your baby. Your baby.

Are you ready to be a mom? No.

You will scour stores, looking for things that tell you the purchase of these items will help you “gear up” and be “prepared” for your baby. They will not help. You will find that most of these items require more assembly than they are worth, and that the swings make your baby dizzy. The vibration and sing-song melodies that are built-in do not soothe her like you can, and even though that much-needed shower is calling your name, her cries are screaming louder. There will be special books- read them. They are helpful to track milestones about your pregnancy, or the milestones of your baby. Other than that, they are just other people’s advice. You will find an array of bottles, pacifiers, thermometers, and bath tubs; these things will overwhelm you into thinking that you need the top-of-the-line because it is best for baby. No. What works for him has nothing to do with price or model number. Wait on these things until after he is born, especially the the bottles and the pacifiers. Trust me.

There will be nights when you hate Frank. You will look at him playing his X-box, sitting Indian style on the floor (something you can no longer do) and you will resent him. You might find his cologne annoying, or the way he chews. The fact that he can now eat anything and not worry about heartburn or weight gain will make you want to throw things at him and at other objects. Try not to. He loves you, and feels helpless in his wife’s ability to create this baby in her tiny body, and doesn’t know how or what to say half the time. You will be annoyed when you guys go out with friends and he gets “silly” with the assistance of alcohol; meanwhile you sit there, sober, pregnant, and slightly bitter, because now you have also become the designated driver. The pregnant wife is now the caretaker to a drunk husband. Remember, he is not doing this to you. He is just carrying on with normal, everyday life and soon you will, too.

But you won’t. Nothing will ever be the same. It will hit you again when you assemble the crib (which by the way, if you want to save $800, I would GLADLY give you Abbi and Lyv’s… it’s a great one). You will be on the floor or sitting in a chair, watching your husband put this contraption together thinking, “Yeah right. The baby’s never really going to get here.” You will start to hang his clothes up in the closet and you will do this by month. 0-3 months first, followed by 3-6, and so on. All of her socks and mittens and headbands will be in one drawer, along with the powders, creams, and washcloths. You will place a meticulously bought stuffed animal in her crib, only to remove it once she is really sleeping in there because it is not safe. The only real way you will feel like you are protecting your child is when you are holding him. When Frank holds him, you will check to see if it’s the way you do it. If he puts him in his crib to sleep, you will go in there twice as often as you would had you put him down.

Read the Manual.

2009-10-16T23:48:00Z

I must be delusional because I was under the impression that I was a mother, not an orangutan. If I don’t have at least one child hanging on me, I have two. And they insist on using all of their weight to show me how much they love me while I am gathering up laundry or defrosting chicken. When I am eating my ritualistic salad for dinner, I appreciate Abbi’s asking me if I’d be interested in a “scalp massage”; however, she insists on sitting behind me while I eat. I am now a roughage-eating bobble head. The shredded carrots are falling off of the fork. I cannot spear an olive.

Help. Me.

When I forego my runs outside and opt for the treadmill, Lyv begins to hand me things, including but not limited to: saran wrap (don’t ask), an empty milk carton (soy, of course), and various remote controls (no longer operable). Why is this? I have a theory.

I think my young know that I have a closing time. Every night, at exactly 6 p.m., eastern standard time, I physically, mentally, and emotionally shut down. I do not care who hit whom, I don’t care if you forgot to scrub extra hard with Mommy’s loofah at bath time, and if you’re lucky you can probably get away with eating the leftover cake frosting for dinner at least by Friday night. When Lyv was using a fork to eat ants off of the floor the other night, I was concerned. But did I stop her? Sadly, no. I have watched enough Andrew Zimmern to know that in some countries, ants are a delicacy. I am allowing Abbi and Lyv to simply embrace other cultures. We are helping to break down the barriers that limit cultural assimilation in Miami. This is also why I laughed it off (after I made sure I lectured her loud enough just in case the neighbors were listening or watching) when Lyv “hid” her goldfish crackers in the dirt, only to dig them up 18 seconds later and shovel them in her mouth.

It’s not that my morals and ideologies that accompany motherhood have diminished; I am just more apt to turn a blind eye when the sun goes down. For example, from the time I pick Abbi up from school at 2 p.m., she fills my brain with information. Is she aware that I only have 4 quality hours left? Is this why she talks with haste about things that ultimately have no relevance? Is she making a last attempt to pick my brain before it powers down? Do I know how old the sky is? Where do they sell refills for digital cameras?

What?

As I made dinner the other night, Lyv decided to climb into the dishwasher. Lucky for her, it was 5:56 p.m. I promptly pulled her out and explained as best as I could to a 16 month old that dishwashers are not for people. If she felt grimy, I’d be happy to bathe her as long as it was within the next 4 minutes. If Abbi has book reports to finish- or start- I have to admit that sometimes we don’t even read the book. I will ask her if she has any idea what the book (of choice) is about, and if it sounds close to the message the author was trying to convey, we are on the same page. No pun intended. I am not a bad parent, nor am I neglectful. I am just one person, responsible for three. I feel like my girls are my cloak, and when they are not with me, I feel naked. I will be out somewhere- Target or Publix as you very well now know- and if they are not with me, I will stop dead in my tracks. I will look for them for that split second before I remember that, yes, they are at school and the babysitter, respectively. I live for the sound of their laughter, for the way Abbi can add humor to what would otherwise be an inappropriate conversation for a 6 year old. My heart leaps when Lyv wraps herself around my neck, sparking my initial concern about my being a mom or some sort of an embodiment, illustrated in a Jane Goodall documentary.

Nevertheless, they are my light.

I would like to put Abbi in Girl Scouts. Why haven’t I? Maybe she will learn how to cook. I kid. I would like to put more volunteer hours in at her school with the PTA. I would love to be able to divide myself up into three’s so that each of us can get equal parts love, humor and attention. That would require mathematics, and I just realized:
It’s after 6 o’clock.

The Last Word

2009-10-11T23:43:00Z

I am not an animal rights activist by any means but I don’t condone the killing, beating or slaughtering of animals, and I do not eat red meat <insert joke here>. When it comes to standing outside in the blazing sun holding up made-it-yourself posters decorated with Sharpie markers purchased at CVS advocating the rights of endangered species, I might count myself in.

When it comes to standing outside in the blazing sun, particularly on my running trail, because 87 ducks have decided to hold concession on my path and interrupt my otherwise perfect pace, I will maintain my belief as not being an animal rights activist.

By any means.

I have noticed that people in Miami have a serious attitude problem. They carry around this sense of entitlement that is evident in grocery stores, where they don’t feel like they should have to wait in line. It happens when you are approaching a red light and some child speeds by you, only to cut you off and slam on the breaks. But I am not here to talk about the breakdown and idiocracy of our society. I want to talk about how this aforementioned sense of entitlement must be in the Miami water, because it is spreading to our wildlife.

I want to talk about these ducks.

It’s happened to me before, you see, but lately it’s become more apparent. On mile 2, it doesn’t really seem like such a big deal. I can gracefully skip over a few ducks here and there gathering on one of nature’s beautiful mornings to discuss their plan of attack from the kids who rally around these parts with stale bread. I can handle a duck and her ducklings crossing on the path- after all, who can begrudge a mother ensuring the safety of her young? We all loved Mother Goose for crying out loud. On mile 4, I can excuse the slow-moving leaders of the pack that seem to influence their even slower-moving counterparts as I hop-scotch around them, careful not to step in their leftovers (can we not get too descriptive here?). What it boils down to is that I am understanding until about mile 7. At mile 7, I start to measure my rights a runner on this trail to their rights as animals that were blessed with webbed feet and could just as easily take up residence in the lake that surrounds this controversial territory.

Once I am beyond mile 10, I am swearing up and down that my next run will be to Sports Authority or Bass Pro Shops, where I will happily and hastily purchase an air horn. I am tired, impatient, and no longer have that bounce in my step.

I come with a warning.

The only problem with this air horn scheme is that it might wake up the entire neighborhood. Wouldn’t that then group me in with Miami’s Sense of Entitlement Association? Is it really my right to scare these animals off of their land? But what is my alternative? A whistle? I am already out of breath, can you just imagine?

Just this afternoon, I incurred another stand-off. Luckily, I was on my last mile so whatever energy I had left was just enough to convince my legs to manage their way back home. The only problem I had was that, surprisingly, it wasn’t a group of ducks I was staving off or shoeing out of the way. It was a small group of punk kids (probably the same ones that would cut me off, if they could see over the steering wheel of their mother’s mini-van). I stood my ground feeling fierce and strong; after spending last night alone, I had a sense of fearlessness and much to ponder. As I approached these 3 kids, they seemed to deliberately take up the same side of the trail that I was running. I motioned to one of them to move over and with slight defiance, he complied. His buddy fell into step behind him, but the last one wouldn’t budge. I started to wonder: Maybe we, myself included, need to start teaching our kids the importance of simple manners, and put the ducks on the back-burner for awhile (not in the literal sense, of course. I dislike Michael Vick as much as the next guy). It is our children that grow into these adults that cannot be held accountable or responsible for their actions. And maybe some of them end up having ducks for pets, and that’s how it spreads.

I don’t know anymore. All I know is that I love to run, I don’t really mind the ducks, and I can forgive someone who can forgive me.

As I ran past the kid who refused to move, we brushed shoulders. At first, he looked at me with justified disgust; I was 9 miles in and drenched in sweat. But then his face softened, and as I lifted my sunglasses off of my face to make eye contact with him, he uttered an apology. Half-assed, but still worthy. I smiled up at him, because nowadays 13 year old kids are taller than me, and I said:

No. I’m sorry.

Sometimes that’s enough, and sometimes you need to just find another route.

Frame of Reference

2009-10-09T22:48:00Z

My closet door is literally on its last proverbial leg, I guess what most would call a “hinge”. It has been like this for approximately 3 months and every morning it greets me, leaning slightly more to the right. Or left.

Depending on whether you’re coming or going.

Please don’t start with the safety concern of my closet door, relating to my children. I know it’s not a great idea to have a swinging swaying and almost temperamental closet door within such close proximity to two small kids, but I sincerely feel like any attempt I make to repair it would result in a fatality. Or at least the loss of a limb. I am afraid of heights so standing on a ladder to “assess” the problem is out of the question. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a DeWalt drill and a Ryobi to save my life. The fact that I am able to correctly spell and identify two different types of electric drills can be accredited to my dad for dragging my sister and I through Home Depot as a punishment when we refused to get along as kids. I recently became privy to the difference between a Phillips and a flathead screwdriver, but understanding why there is a need for two different types of screws is lost on me. Let’s pretend that I was to fix this door. Imagine my surprise as I walk into Home Depot or even Lowe’s- clearly I don’t have a preference- and I am distracted by the actual size of the store. I would be overwhelmingly worried about what all I need for this DIY project (Amelie watches a lot of HGTV and I have learned some very important acronyms that are crucial to home projects). All I know is that the door isn’t opening and closing as it should and this has become an issue.

Would I need safety glasses? Or a hard hat? What if the door is too heavy and it falls on me? My head would be protected, but I am more than the sum of my parts. What if I am on a step-ladder (wait- would I need one of those?) and it falls on me? I wouldn’t even have my footing. All of that Yoga and Pilates would be a wash and if I broke the hypothetical limb as I am predicting I would, then I might even lose my job. I could actually lose money and be at a disadvantage all because of the inconvenience of an unexpected faulty door.

What about gloves? Would one use gloves for this process? And what type of gloves? They sell gardening gloves and dish-washing gloves, and would these be sufficient? Would they get the job done? I don’t think they manufacture Closet Door Repair gloves. Is this even a question an employee of a Home Depot would be able to answer? I don’t think I would know where to begin.

I would end up wandering over to another section that I am far more comfortable in and probably come home with a spectacular looking area rug, whose pattern I just couldn’t resist. This would lead me back to this home improvement heaven in search of paint because I would want to really play up the colors of my new rug. But what about the closet door?

I decided to do myself- and this door- a favor and just remove the entire thing from its uncooperative hinges. I feel like I am in a safer environment and it is no longer glaring at me as it sways to and fro. Until I can muster up the courage (and work on that smile where my dimples make an appearance, especially because I am no longer a blonde) to ask someone to come fix it for me, it will find a home propped up against the wall. It’s kind of European though, as now I have this nice big entrance to my haven of clothes, heels, and bags. I can see everything before I even decide what I want to wear to Publix, Target or the bank. Some days I even get to make an appearance at all three places! This is all very exciting to me.

This morning I awoke to the sun lighting my room through my window. I got out of bed and wobbled (runners walk this way in the morning…) over to my door-lacking entryway, happy that I no longer had to worry about dying. No.

Now I just have to fret over tripping and dying because on this bright and cheery morning, I have discovered that the light bulb just blew out.

Welcome to my life.

The Weight.

2009-10-09T02:18:00Z

Have I mentioned I teach yoga? I do. I have been teaching Pilates at the local college for almost 4 years, and this year my boss asked me to start up a yoga class. Every Tuesday and Thursday, I have to empty out the bank of thoughts that holds my mind hostage and become a chipper and motivational spitfire whose biggest problem is balance, proper breathing and perfect posture.

Today’s class in particular, was very difficult. My mind was elsewhere and it wasn’t focused on yoga. I found myself in plank position, thinking how metaphoric it was. I am literally on the tips of my toes with my palms pressed against the (door)mat that has become my life looking for something that is simply not there.

I come home to myself. There is no one waiting for me when I walk through the door with even so much as a smile that you couldn’t slap off. I come home to a house where the shades have been drawn all day and natural light is not welcome because with it, comes a warmer house. A hot house results in my needing to turn the air conditioning lower and let’s face it: my power’s been shut off this past week already. I can hardly afford the bare minimum. I have acquired an appreciation for a ceiling fan on full-blast, while keeping every light off in the house, save for the room I happen to be sitting in. I often have to leave Abbi and Lyv alone for 3 minutes because taking the garbage out has become my job.

Everything has become my job. Yet, I don’t have time to get one full-time.

When they take a bath, I find it difficult to sit there and watch them like I used to; I now have to use that time to transfer the wash into the dryer. I will ask Abbi to feed her sister as a favor to me, while I throw a salad together (don’t think everything has changed; salad is still the staple of my diet). I now have to wait until I put them to bed just so I can eat dinner without Lyv picking the croutons off of my salad and Abbi putting on dance shows and commanding my attention. After they’ve fallen asleep, I have the urge to wake one of them up just to have someone to talk to.

They are six and sixteen months. What am I thinking?

I come home to silence. I miss the noise and the lights on in every room; I guess I didn’t care about the environment when I was married? I come home and instead of having someone waiting for me, I have things waiting to be taken care of. I have two daughters that can’t see their mother breakdown. I have one in Kindergarten whose teacher expects me to participate in Crazy Hat Day, the PTA Pizza Party and Hispanic Heritage Month, all in the same week. I have another who attempted to eat ants off of our floor with a fork after I had just swept the crumbs out from underneath their table. I have to be in five places at one time because expectations are high, standards higher.

I have Joe Cocker promising me that I will get by with a little help from my friends.

I come home to a place where I know my needs are secondary to my children’s, and sometimes I just don’t want to be the line leader. What I would give just for five minutes. I want to be able to step back and have someone step forward. I miss standing not just by someone, but behind them. My daughters have become a haven for me, where laughing, hugs, and first words are what keep me light on my feet. What I would give if just for an hour I could have someone sweep me off of those toes, instead of stepping on them. To have someone say those first words to me that are so lovely they could almost be mistaken for a foreign language, in which case I wouldn’t even want or need the translation.

I was laying in corpse pose tonight in class, thinking about how alive I am. I am right here, searching for something that maybe never was going to be found. I instructed my students to release all of the tension from each muscle, starting with their toes, ending at their neck. It was only until I asked this of them, that I realized:

I, too, need to let go.

Strange Brood

2009-10-04T19:19:00Z

My grandmother has Alzheimer’s. I have to say it might be the best thing that has happened to her. Before you let your jaw hang open as a result of what you will assume is my lack of compassion, let me finish. My grandmother, Mema, was not a nice person. In fact, she was a bitch to all who knew her and even to those that did not. Ever since she has been diagnosed with severe Alzheimer’s, she has been the poster child for pleasantry. She is no longer worried about whether me or my sister still owe her $1.49 for the Baskin Robbins ice cream she took us out for circa 1995. She no longer asks me why my breasts keep shrinking after every child birth in front of my better-looking cousins that I haven’t seen since I was 12, when said breasts were, in fact, bigger than then they are now. Although she did ask how my “cycle” was treating me in front of my cousin Jay yesterday. I’ll let it slide though- it was obvious I was bloated. She kind of just lives in the land of oblivion, and niceness comes with the territory.

Among other things that are apparently in abundance in La-La land are crazy family members. Why is it that when one person loses their mind diagnostically, every one within arm’s length seems to think it’s a ticket to crazy town, too? My 45 year old uncle , for example, was a not-so happily married man, who in the span of a year, left his wife and 2 kids, and moved back in with my grandmother. A clean-cut guy having worked for the Post Office for 20 years, has now grown his hair out. He is starting to resemble the Adam Sandler character, Zohan, and even wears a man-choker.

He is not a surfer.

There are no waves in Miami.

He is a mail man.

Here is why I am talking about my grandmother: Three days a week I take her “out”. Out, you ask? Where might “out” be?

Out is anywhere she needs to go, or anywhere I can get her to go without resisting my request to get her out of her house. Today our goal was to get Mema her flu shot. My cousin Jay (the cousin who is now privy to my menstrual cycle) and I loaded her into my car alongside my 2 kids, and the 5 of us ventured out to CVS. After asking me and Jay countless times where we were going, whose car we were in and whose kids she was “babysitting”, we arrived. As I filled out the computerized health information sheet, Jay was responsible for watching my 2 kids and our grandmother, totaling 3 children. Abbi, my 6 year old, was talking a mile a minute, while my 16 month old, Lyv, was content chewing on a pen cap my grandmother gave her (do you see what I mean?). As Jay rummages through my purse to try to find her insurance cards and Abbi is telling me how I really need to prioritize her need for Halloween candy this year, and I am struggling to wipe the drool off of my shoulder, we lose my grandmother.

I look through the aisles, somewhat frantically- I mean, really, how far could she go- I am calling her name. My cousin is still standing in line because he is fearful that we will lose our spot what with the 12 people in front of us. I have Lyv squirming out of my arms and Abbi is struggling to keep up with my fast pace, as I scan each aisle of CVS, wondering which one could have the most appeal to her.

I find her in the Mixed Nuts aisle. How very appropriate.

I am with my 2 kids, my cousin who feeds into my grandmother’s senility by answering the same questions she asks him every 2 minutes with a variation of the same answer so that she is all the more confused, and I wonder what we must look like to strangers. Does she even have a bra on? Do her socks match? I cannot wait in this line any longer. Not like this; not with her wandering off every few minutes, only to ask us why we are at CVS in the first place.

I realize I have to be in class in 2 hours and I am hungry. I tell my cousin I will bring her back myself on Wednesday. This time, I know what to expect. I will bring snacks and entertainment and every nut she could possibly desire. Even pistachios. There will be no roaming. If she asks me why we are here and how we got here, I might just look at her and answer the question with the same question.

My grandmother has Alzheimer’s and I think I’ve lost my mind.