During a recent trip to the hospital with my father, I noticed a magazine on a table in the waiting room. The title was “Today’s Care Giver” and I admit being somewhat intrigued. How can a magazine devoted entirely to people who take care of other people be a successful publication? I suppose since it’s a niche market and they only seem to be available in hospitals, it meets the desired circulation.
The glossy cover features a pseudo-celebrity whose interview promises to reveal inside secrets to caring for elderly parents. If we talked about it in real terms, there would be no need for psycho-babbly publications and do-it-yourself seminars. Yeah, the editor-in-chief of this magazine travels all over the country and holds conferences on how to be a caregiver. Where can I sign up for that gig? The one secret you won’t learn in a magazine or at a seminar is this: Have limitless resources.
Financially, it is a huge strain to manage a household that includes a 4-year old, a 46-year old and an 82-year old. I do not work “outside the home” (as they say), so we depend on my dad’s very fixed income to support us. Utility bills, groceries, prescriptions, other personal necessities must be managed with very little financial wiggle room. In fact, for the past couple of months, I have relied on good friends to help me make my ends meet. But really, money is the least of my concerns.
It’s my personal resources that are being drained. It may look to those outside the situation that I have a free ride, but nothing could be further from the truth. I work my fanny off every day to make sure that our odd little household is running smoothly and everyone is well cared for. For example, just this morning, I realized that I had done more in a couple of hours than most people get done in a whole day.
I awoke to my daughter whacking me in the head with her cup, demanding more milk. As I stumbled through the living room, my father greeted me from his recliner (his throne), his leg covered in blood and stuck in a plastic grocery sack. He had injured his shin during the night and spent the rest of the wee hours with his leg propped up. So… I rinsed, refilled and delivered the Pie’s cup and grabbed medical supplies from the bathroom. I washed Dad’s lacerated shin with normal saline (just happen to have it lying around), and then cleaned the dried blood with warm soapy water. I covered the wound with antibiotic cream and dressed it with sterile bandages. Upon completion of this task, I had been awake for about 20 minutes.
After washing my hands, I set to work preparing breakfast. Before I could locate the pancake mix in the cabinet, my daughter blasts into the kitchen with the force of Iron Man and declares she is hungry. I explain that I am preparing our regular Saturday breakfast of pancakes and sausage, but she rebuts that she will starve if she doesn’t have something to eat RIGHT THIS SECOND!!! A quick talking-to and instructions to stand in the corner took care of that, so back to breakfast. While I wait for the griddle and frying pan to heat up, I remove the dishes from the dishwasher and put them away. Why is it there is ALWAYS a dirty dish somewhere in this house? With that done, I grab a load of laundry and start it on it’s merry, agitating way.
Back to breakfast: sausage in the pan, batter on the griddle…we are good to go. Oh, suddenly, from the corner where she still stands, my daughter announces that she needs a new band-aid on her toe (this will be the 17th since her injury less than 24 hours ago) and it must take priority over anything else I am doing. She’s so funny…. I flip the pancakes, get the required accoutrements from the pantry and run to the bathroom for a new princess band-aid. I realize I carried the syrup with me all through the house as I sit the Pie down for a new wound dressing. I go back to the kitchen to finish up pancakes and sausage and serve them up an empty dining table. My dad has wandered off to the bathroom, which could take up to 45 minutes, and my daughter…well; she’s still standing in the corner. At least she takes direction well!
As I wait for everyone to be seated, I decide to do a little dusting in the living room when the phone rings and it’s a company to which my dad has applied for Medicare Prescription Part D insurance, explaining why we are unable to enroll him at this time, blah, blah, blah… By the time I hang up, both my charges sit at the table looking at me like Oliver in the movie asking for more gruel! Oh, but wait…where the hell is the syrup? I honestly had to remind myself why I was ever in the entry foyer to begin with when I discovered the Log Cabin sitting forlornly in the corner. Now, let the eating commence.
After 4 bites, the Pie explains that she is full. This from the child who swore she would shrivel up and die if she didn’t eat something. Dad eats silently, that is until he says, “The sausage is a little browner than I like.” Fortunately for all involved, I say nothing. Breakfast is finally, mercifully over and now the real work begins.
Three more loads of laundry, dishes, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, wound care for both of those clumsy clods I love, then some playing with Barbies, Play-Doh and the Littlest Pet Shop. Preparing and cleaning up from lunch and dinner will also make their way onto the list.
If I have time, I plan to write that magazine and suggest they change the name to: “Today’s Care Giver is Tomorrow’s Exhausted Raving Lunatic.”
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Thursday, July 14, 2011
What's In My Hand?
I am The Pie Baker...and I am a spanker. But, wait! Before you call Social Services on me, let me explain. When the Pie gets a spank, it's only after she meets certain criteria established upon the first incident of undesired behavior. I only spank with my hand, no other object is used. And a singular spank is what she gets. Not a barrage of smacks on the buttocks. but one solidly landed spank. I know there is an ongoing and fiercely heated debate regarding this issue and I'm not, repeat, AM NOT asking for support, a comment blast, or chastisement, or finger-waving or whatever else fanatical people do to make normal people feel bad about themselves. So, kindly zip it. Now, let's move on.
It occurred to me that The Pie has received more spanks in the months since she turned 4 than she received in her entire first 3 years. Now, I have not conducted empirical, variable or any other kind of real research on this fact, but the only sense I can make out of it is that for the first 2 years she did nothing that warranted an actual spanking and now as her personality takes a more solid shape (some days it's a gargoyle, but most days it's a sunflower) she is testing the boundaries as well as my willingness and ability to enforce them. I get it...it was part of the sign-on bonus I got when I gave her life. But what I do often wonder is what will she remember about my hands?
Will she be haunted by memories of my hand hitting her little bottom or will she smile when she recalls my fingers clenching her tiny chubby hands as she took her first steps? Will she suffer flashbacks of getting spanked for an act of defiance or will she one day revisit when my hands soothed her boo-boos and gently wiped tears from her soft cheeks? It's my hope that she remembers all of these things and more...because what I hold in my hands is the story of a life. Mine. Hers. Ours.
I like to think of it this way...a sculptor begins with a raw material and his or her job is to create beauty from that material. Whether it is clay that must be pounded repeatedly to obtain the perfect curve, or steel that must be hammered into shape, every medium used to create art sustains hitting in order to achieve the artist's vision. During the process, the artist becomes just as much a part of the medium as the piece of art itself.
In that vein, The Pie must withstand my hand occasionally hitting her bottom so that I can shape her into the work of art I see but cannot describe. She must learn consequences and discipline and focus and order. The lessons she learns by my imprinting my hand on her tushy I hope will be passed down to her child as she holds it in her hands and shares its secrets.
It occurred to me that The Pie has received more spanks in the months since she turned 4 than she received in her entire first 3 years. Now, I have not conducted empirical, variable or any other kind of real research on this fact, but the only sense I can make out of it is that for the first 2 years she did nothing that warranted an actual spanking and now as her personality takes a more solid shape (some days it's a gargoyle, but most days it's a sunflower) she is testing the boundaries as well as my willingness and ability to enforce them. I get it...it was part of the sign-on bonus I got when I gave her life. But what I do often wonder is what will she remember about my hands?
Will she be haunted by memories of my hand hitting her little bottom or will she smile when she recalls my fingers clenching her tiny chubby hands as she took her first steps? Will she suffer flashbacks of getting spanked for an act of defiance or will she one day revisit when my hands soothed her boo-boos and gently wiped tears from her soft cheeks? It's my hope that she remembers all of these things and more...because what I hold in my hands is the story of a life. Mine. Hers. Ours.
I like to think of it this way...a sculptor begins with a raw material and his or her job is to create beauty from that material. Whether it is clay that must be pounded repeatedly to obtain the perfect curve, or steel that must be hammered into shape, every medium used to create art sustains hitting in order to achieve the artist's vision. During the process, the artist becomes just as much a part of the medium as the piece of art itself.
In that vein, The Pie must withstand my hand occasionally hitting her bottom so that I can shape her into the work of art I see but cannot describe. She must learn consequences and discipline and focus and order. The lessons she learns by my imprinting my hand on her tushy I hope will be passed down to her child as she holds it in her hands and shares its secrets.
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