Boreal Witch

I have been posting the entries, but now that it's become more of a journal than a blog, I'm going to refrain. I need a place I can vent and there's so much more I want to complain about. There's so much more I have to complain about. (For instance, did you know it takes a normal person about two hours to watch a movie but it takes a mother about a week to watch a movie? Mostly because she can only watch it in about 20 minute increments...)

Needless to say, I can't do it here, not without some of my readers taking offense or getting upset. So, I'm going to bid you all good-bye again. Perhaps someday this thing will read more like a blog than a journal. When that happens, I'll come back once again. 

Me: Quick question: Are you the only one in your house who takes the extra step to put things where they belong, or do your girls and Joe do it, too?

Becky: When I am doing dishes I feel no one wants to help load or empty. I do try my best to put things away. 

***

This is the woman's burden in a nutshell. 

I'll be the first to shout on the rooftops that my husband and boys actually do a lot around the house. The boys clean their own bathroom. My husband does the dishes almost every night (he even cooks on occasion!). They vacuum and make their own beds. So, really, I have nothing to complain about. 

It's just hard to feel content when there's still so much undone. Sure, the dishes get done and put away, but the mixer attachments still sit on the counter until I put them where they belong. The floor's never swept, the counters rarely wiped down. There's still work to do even after the work's done. 

This is not to say I'm not grateful. I am, truly I am. I like having the help. But when there's more work to do, it's no longer help. I still need to take the extra step to finish the job because I know no one else will. It's exhausting.

Which leads me to wonder: what if I allow my perfectionist tendencies to override my gratitude? What if I half-assed it? What if I left jobs unfinished? And what if I was okay with it? 

It's been a few days, hasn't it? I've been trying to catch up on some builds in Terraria. Balin's birthday party is this weekend and I've got a few things to finish up. I've been trying to edit my second novel. I've been doing all of the regular, hum drum, day-to-day activities. I've been planning a Spring Break trip (but have yet to make any arrangements). I've been working on the next RPG adventure. 

So, it's been a bit busy around here. 

I'm at the point where I am panicking inside because I feel the pressure. There's so much to do - too much to do - that I'm mentally repeating, "Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck...!" 

I've only myself to blame. I've never been great at time management. Perfect example: This morning, I decided to work on the RPG for a bit. I had some time before lunch. I opened the door to the games cabinet and audibly groaned. (Robinson, who was passing through the living room on the way to the kitchen, witnessed the head shake and shoulder sag.) It was a mess. Instead of pulling out the RPG materials and shutting the door, I spent the next 20 minutes reorganizing the games cupboard. It looked fabulous when it was finished, but seriously. This is how I spent my time? 

At least I wasn't playing Pokemon Go or doodling around on my phone, right?

Do I need to restart a priorities list? Resurrect the bullet journal? Do I start one-thing-at-a-time small? Or, like usual, how about just jumping in? 

I wish I felt better about delegating. I do things the way I like them done, but I've been trying more and more to yield because I simply can't do everything myself. I hate the way my kids clean their bathroom, but how else are they going to learn how to do an activity? 

So, in order to keep mischief and mayhem at bay, I'll make today's to-do list, according to priority: 

1. Prepare for Friday's RPG.

2. Finish last minute details for Saturday's Terraria party.

2a. Final presents in chests.

2b. Teleporter to forest pylon.

2c. Test run with weak character.

2d. Confirm final time of party.

3. School photo prep to family and friends.

And....go!

The School District of Beloit has finally decided to send our kids to school. Ours is the only district in the area which has not sent kids back to the classroom yet. They want to divide students into two groups. One group will attend school on Mondays and Tuesdays and the other group will go Thursdays and Fridays. Wednesdays will remain a no school day. 

While I am excited the kids will be going back, I feel this is a half-assed attempt to prove to parents that the district can handle their response to COVID. Honestly, it's too little too late, nothing but frustration and headache having to deal with the administration.   

In August, the district sent out emails about registration. The emails were vague at best, a basic outline of how to register your child. What was truly disappointing? No one from the district called us to ask us about our plans or walk us through registration or answer our questions. 

The whole year went like this. A vague notion of change, implemented in a month's time - until now, when the kids are going back to school in April and no one has any idea what's happening because the school district doesn't know itself what's actually going on. The district tells parents to call the schools, but the teachers and staff are just as in the dark as we are. 

It's no wonder the district lost 500 kids to Beloit-Turner and will lose about 700 to the Lincoln Academy when it opens in the fall. I've talked to parents who have sent their kids to OLA, a private school, because they felt the School District of Beloit wasn't doing enough, wasn't communicating enough to their parents. 

We aren't stuck. We are actually within the boundaries of the Beloit-Turner District. We've chosen not to send our kids there because of the Dual Language program. Even that has lost a lot of its luster during distance learning. So, what do we do? Do we suck it up and finish the rest of the school year? Do we contact the district and inform them of the awful job they are doing? Do we hang in there and hope it gets better? 

However it is done, there's only a few months left. Whatever the Beloit School District has planned for next year, I'm fairly confident it won't be any better.  

Terraria has been my family's go-to game for a while. While it's natural to assume that two little boys would absolutely love this game, my sisters and their kids love it as well. We've celebrated birthdays, we've hunted bosses, we've built gem farms and moss farms together. It's been a lifesaver over this tumultuous year, especially for Balin. He's such a social creature. Being away from his friends and teachers at school has been hard for him. 

It's funny how quickly we've latched onto this game. I remember when the boys came home from gymnastics. Their friend Asher had told them about Terraria. "It's like a 2D Minecraft!" they exclaimed. 

I, however, was unimpressed. I hate Minecraft with a passion. I hate the mindlessness of it and the sheer laziness of the developers (No quests? No bosses? No worthwhile NPCs?). I hate feeling inadequate when I play. I hate the lack of progression (Again, no quests? No bosses? No worthwhile NPCs?). Most of all, I passionately hate Creepers with their horrible hissing and explosive bodies. They have ruined many houses.

But, to please my boys, I (begrudgingly) played Terraria. And I was pleasantly surprised. The game exceeded my expectations. It was fun to play. Although there aren't any quests, there was enough of a progression to keep me entertained. So far, we've netted over 1000 hours of play and we're still going strong.

When I find a game I like, I'll often check out similar games. Why not make a good thing even better?

Alas, apparently you can have too much of a good thing. 

Starbound popped up during my search. I was interested. The boys were excited - hooray! A new computer game! We bought it and took it for a test run. 

I hated it. 

The boys love the game. They want me to love it. And because they love it so much, I really, really want to love it, too. After all, the game shares many elements with Terraria: fun weapons and items, building and constructing, plot progression, interesting NPCs, and customizable characters. I should love it, shouldn't I? 

I couldn't get into it. The game has too many of the same problems as Minecraft. It's impossible to enjoy a game I feel so terrible at.  

Starbound has quests, but I have yet to not fail an actual quest. I attempted to help an Apex get from point A to point B. Along the way, I accidentally singed her fur with my flamethrower when I was being attacked by hostile creatures. She started shooting at me. Then I ran away and I think she was mauled. Fail. Then I tried to help out a Floran. Her sparing partner had been kidnapped by bad guys. I rescued her partner, but he ran behind her and now I can't talk to her. Fail. Balin told me he's never completed a quest either and that's just how the game works. Bullshit, child. That's bullshit.  

The enemies in Starbound are insanely tough. They knock me on my ass and 1/4th of my health is instantly gone. I tap them with my energy stick and they lose five HP out of a million. Then they chase me into pits I can't get out of and fall on me for the fun of it. Oh, man, was I thrilled to get a flamethrower. It's leveled the playing field, but not by nearly enough.

There are a lot of things in this game that scream lazy developers to me. The most glaring? Different species don't have unique qualities. Different species don't like or dislike other species. Why bother having different species if you aren't going to flesh them out a little? 

Argh!

The boys insisted I keep with it because...fossils! You can collect small, medium, or large fossils by solving a puzzle! You could create a massive museum displaying all of said creatures! It sounds like so much fun. So the boys and I went fossil hunting. I found a fossil. I dug it up. And it was enjoyable. But honestly, even this little activity isn't enough to keep me interested. Fossils are so hard to get. I went to three different planets and found nothing but more animals that wanted to crush my delicate robotic body. Discouraging, to say the least. 

Needless to say, I can't play Starbound for hours on end like I can Terraria. As much as I want to like this game, it's not going to happen. But for my boys, I'll try again. I'll give it another shot. 

My dad has been retired for about 15 years. He woke up one day and decided he was done with the daily grind. He put more effort into his stamp collection and his book business while waiting for my mom to retire. She eventually did, just a few years ago; however, she's still a substitute for the Anchorage School District. The people there love her. She loves her work. She can't stay away. It's like she hasn't actually retired. 

Dad, I feel, was hoping Mom would want to leave after she stopped working. He's been done in Alaska for years and has been ready for (literal) greener pastures. I don't think he'd be adverse to returning to enjoy Alaskan summers (which are beautiful), but he no longer wanted to experience the long, dark winters. 

He's waited patiently, but now it's become evident that Mom does not want to leave. She's been in Alaska for over 40 years now. Leaving would be scary. Contrary to Dad, Mom has never liked change. I remember her crying when we left Barrow. I remember her frantic "Are you okay???" when I traveled to Israel. I remember her reluctance to retire. I know she harbors deep fears about starting over.

What she chooses not to focus on are all of the good things about retirement. She could be closer to her sisters. She could go on weekend road trips. She could be a snowbird and go visit her grandchildren in the summers while enjoying some mild Lower 48 winters. This week is supposed to be in the 50's. I don't miss the typical Alaskan 30's at this time of year. 

Robinson's working away now so that he can retire at 55. Words can't express how grateful I am for his careful planning. The kids will be grown. We'll be able to travel. We'd downsize to a much smaller place in a city we love. We could visit our families. It's a nice vision of the future. 

Don't we all want those lovely dreams when we're old? I curse my mom a little bit for forcing my dad into a situation he so desperately wants out of. 

I read an article yesterday which I've spent most of today processing. The US population, apparently, is declining and the tone was very much doom and gloom. 

Millennials aren't having kids! They need to have kids! WHY ARE THEY NOT HAVING KIDS???

Please. Calm the fuck down. 

First of all, good. The population should be going down. There's way too many of us as it is and it is tearing the planet (and our society) apart. Why are people having more kids when so many parents can't take care of the kids they already have? It's irresponsible. If you aren't going to take care of your kids, then don't have them. For the love of all things holy, JUST DON'T. 

Secondly, why would anyone want to spend $250,000 on raising a child when they have (college) debt and work a minimum wage job? You can barely take care of you. Why add to the misery?

Third, there is an expectation from everyone around you to have kids, but I'm giving you permission to not have kids, okay? No one says you have to do things exactly like your parents or grandparents. If you enjoy your freedom, have your freedom. Travel. Live your life the way you want to, not the way someone says you should. Guess what? They'll deal. 

And finally, I've had lots of people tell me I need to have more kids because I'm such an amazing parent. I always tell them if I had more than two kids I'd go crazy. Then I laugh and they laugh and because we're laughing, it's just silly nonsense. Honestly, deep down, I know I cannot handle more than two kids. I would lose my shit constantly. In fact, someday, when my kids are wrestling with how many kids they want (or don't want) to have, I'll tell them the truth. That decision is yours. Not an economist's. Not the cashier at the grocery store. Not mine. 

It's up to you to do what's right for you. Kids don't ever have to play a role in that decision.

A few days ago, I texted Dad a silly question, not really expecting an answer. After all, Dad had never been a small talk kind of person. He speaks plainly, but he doesn't speak about trivial matters. I thought it might be fun to get bits of his personal history and background.

So I asked: What were your favorite games growing up? 

A couple hours later, Dad texted back: Monopoly, chess. Sheepshead. 

The next day, I asked: What were your favorite toys when you were a kid and why?

Teddy bears. I don't know why. I'm thinking of one more. Lincoln logs. I liked building things. 

And today, there was this gem; simple, but traditional: What's your favorite color?

Blue.

Tomorrow there will be another text. I don't what it will say exactly - just another question and another answer which will provide another glimmer into my dad's life. These questions aren't much, but I hope someday they'll lead to bigger ones. Perhaps - if his treatment progresses - the questions will become that interview I've always wanted to do. But right now, I'll have to settle for these little Questions of the Day. 

It's not easy getting back into the thick of things. I'm not even really back, not technically. I have to quarantine for at least 10 days, which means no trips to the store, no running errands, and no taking my kids to and from their activities. 

So, I'm back. At least in the physical sense. 

Today, I deep cleaned the kitchen, as I always do on Wednesdays. I took a walk with Robinson. I caught up on a few emails. I built a moss farm in Terraria. I finished Hillbilly Elegy. It wasn't what I expected. I started to plan out the next Star Wars RPG for the kiddos. Josh called me, saying he hadn't talked to me in a while. That was a welcome surprise. I called my mom to remind her to put the custard in the freezer so that I could use it up on my next visit. Dad answered instead and rushed me off the phone. It's 5:45 there. Time for The Closer. 

Yes, things are back to normal, or as normal as they can be.

I'm still worried, of course, but I'm back. 

And life goes on. 

It's natural to leave a few activities undone when you travel home. After all, there's a priority list - taxes, for example, in this last visit - in which certain things will always take precedence. 

We operated under the assumption that Dad would be getting his second treatment Monday and so I left, the outlook good. Then came the news: his white blood cell count was too low to receive his second treatment. It would have to wait until next week. 

Now I doubt my decision. Should I have stayed? Would it have mattered if I had? Would my being there offer another solution? The rhetorical questions and non-answers are absolute hell. There's nothing I can do to fix anything. I have no control over this situation. It all rests on Dad's shoulders. 

Am I selfish to want my father around for a few more years? What if he's ready to go? How do I make peace with his decision, horrible as it may be?

There are so many things I have yet to do with him. My sisters and I were going to interview him. That didn't happen, even though we wanted it to be a priority. Another thing undone. There are the unplanned trips to Germany, to the birthplace of most of my ancestors. Undone. And there are the boxes upon boxes of books and stamps filling every available square foot of my dad's house, waiting to be processed, or posted, or sold. All undone. 

We only have so much time to finish everything we want to, a limited amount of time to express our joys and live our passions. There's so much my dad hasn't seen yet and to see him back away without a fight is upsetting. Maybe there's a wisdom here I don't see yet. After all, I'm still (reasonably) young and want so much out of the next forty years. Dad's nearing the end. Would another ten years really make a difference?

I suppose it would for the rest of us. We don't want things with him to end. We don't want his life to end undone and unfinished. We want a chance for him to complete what he starts in a way where nothing is left behind. 

In the end, though, does it matter? Does any of it really matter?

"Boy," Dad said, tipping his head in a sideways glance. "You must really like garlic."

"I do," I answered, smiling. We'd had this conversation already - a few weeks ago when he and I were sitting shoulder to shoulder at his desk, working on taxes. Talk about deja vu. 

"Or I'm just smelling garlic," he said. 

"Your nose could be broken," I offered. "After all, the nurse said chemo was going to affect your taste and smell."

A long pause. 

"You think my nose is broken?" Dad asked. 

"No," I laughed. "I just really like garlic."

Then he laughed, too. 

Last Will and Testament

DECLARATION. I, Boreal Witch, a legal adult being of competent and sound mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.

Firstly, I promise to discard or distribute all of all of my personal belongings before I die. 

Second, I promise to never bequeath a large, heavy, or cumbersome item to someone more than 100 miles away. If, for whatever reason, I insist upon doing so, I will pay the moving costs and fees associated with said item.

Third, I promise to find special homes for my fabric and quilting items unless arrangements have already been made for my children, nieces, or nephew to have them. 

Fourth, I promise to not leave the next generation of family members with piles of my stuff, my parents' stuff, and/or my grandparents' stuff. Exceptions will be made for specific family items, to be determined before I die (see #1).

Lastly, I promise to never expect my children, nieces, or nephew to feel obligated to have any of my physical items. In fact, if they don't ask for it, I will assume they don't want it. 

Signed, 

Boreal Witch

2/25/21 

As you, dear reader, well know, my parents are hoarders. My dad has a large collection of stamps and books, both which he sells online, and my mom has a vast collection of stuff. You name it, it's probably under a pile somewhere and Mom knows exactly where she can find it. 

Today, Dad and I both mentioned to Mom it was time to start getting rid of the kid stuff. After all, Balin - the youngest grandchild - was turning 10 this year and would be too old for that (dusty) 24 piece Sesame Street puzzle or the board books. It was well past time to clean up. 

Mom, of course, was reluctant. "Ella still plays with some of these!" she exclaimed. Dad and I both knew it had less to do with the kids actually using the toys and more to do with the emotional value she places on all of these items. She realized I was serious when I enlisted Josh's help.

"But he and the girls play games with those controllers!"

Yes, they probably do. But that's for them to decide. 

Naomi recently referenced Mom's hoarding as "a museum of her life". I really enjoy that analogy. Within your house, your car, your phone, your cabinets and counter tops, and computer, you have things, stuff, items on display. All are a tribute to you. They are pieces of your life. What artifacts do you choose to show off? What is most meaningful? What can you not live without? What best represents you?

Already on this trip, I have been given old schoolwork which my mom expects me to treasure for all of time and eternity. It's special because it was made by my hands; therefore, I must have some kind of attachment to it, right? 

What my mom does not understand - and has never understood - is that, much like an actual museum, I'm choosing to keep my favorite pieces on display. Those I am most proud of is what I will admire the most. 

A torn red fish shape made from construction paper and drawn with a child's hand? Gone. A practice painting from high school? Gone. "The Water Color Book" illustrating different watercolor techniques, an original from a school art class? Keep. I remember working so hard on that artifact. It is a piece I would be happy to place on a pedestal and share with the world. 

It's Sunday. Becky and her girls usually come to Mom and Dad's house today. They visit after lunch to about dinnertime. Sometimes Dad and Becky work on putting together stamp books for APS. Mom will watch movies with the girls downstairs. Today, there weren't any activities planned. They came over and we all just hung out. The girls and I baked cookies, reduced some discarded prune juice (Dad decided he wasn't a fan), and drooled over the first episode of Nadia Bakes. I think they were as smitten with her as I am.

I had bought some fabric crawling with adorable bees to feed Blythe's obsession. I planned to make her a mask, but without elastic, I wouldn't be able to finish it. Becky graciously gave me some of her elastic, with the condition I had to sew up a bee mask for her, too. Not a problem. The cut I bought was large enough for three masks. 

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, they often say. So true of the sewer's heart. If you don't actually feel like sewing, you will have to take a seam ripper to your stitches. Every. Damn. Time. 

I was nearly finished, but I'd had enough. I had to get out of the house, into the wide outdoors. One glance at Molly told me she was listless and thinking the exact same thing. 

"I think I need to go for a walk. Molly, would you like to come with me?"

Her eyes widened. With her upturned mouth, she looked as though she had just won the lottery. 

"Yes!" she exclaimed. 

During the first part of our walk, we talked about school. We talked about where she was going to live someday. Molly surprised me by saying Wisconsin. (She loves the farm, she further explained.) She chose the long way around the neighborhood, which meant she liked being in my company. I was being a cool auntie. 

On the way back, I ran into a high school friend's parents. They didn't recognize me, not at first. I had on my oversized maroon and white UPS hat and a puffy winter jacket - how would they have known? I don't visit often in the winter anymore. 

They asked the typical questions. How's my family? You aren't still in Fairbanks, are you? How many kids do you have? Was your husband able to stay at home during the pandemic? Have you talked to Jenny yet? 

They filled me in on their lovable grandson and their own trials with his distance learning. Then Judith said, "The one thing I remember about you is that you used to draw. Are you still drawing?"

I laughed. "Mostly cute things with my boys. Balin and I will watch guided drawing episodes on YouTube. I mostly write and quilt now."

Then she asked what I write. 

"Science fiction novels, mostly, about historical events. Right now I take pieces of the American Civil War and fit them into a more modern context. I question our use of technology and examine social issues under a futuristic lens." 

Both seemed duly impressed. They wanted to know if I had a publisher. 

"It's self-published right now. Maybe someday I'll find one, but for now it's kind of a fun challenge to see if I can even do it."

Then Doug, who had been mostly silent until that point, gave me the best compliment: "I never would have thought to put together science fiction and the Civil War."

It's a creative stretch to leap from the past to the future - that's the very reason why I write. Perhaps I'll never be a celebrated author or famous or even well-respected in the science fiction world. Connecting dots that aren't associated with one another is challenge enough. 

If there's one thing Mom knows how to do - and do well - it's small talk. 

Put her in a room with just about anyone and she'll find a way to keep the conversation going. It doesn't matter if you've just met her or if you've known her for years, she's got the gift of gab. 

I'm staying with Mom and Dad while Blythe and Dustun are quarantining. The both of them have been so gracious to house me, but because I've been the one taking Dad to and from appointments, I'm trying to be conscientious. They are returning from a state with no mask mandate. While I know they've been staying safe, there's no telling about the people around them. (Maybe I'm being too safe - I don't know.) Also, I know how I feel after vacationing, and having one more person around the house will probably be a bit stressful, although they won't admit it. 

Anyway. Mom and I sat down at the kitchen table to fill out some medical paperwork and go through some old technology for electronics recycling. When we were through, we had a nice chat about...whatever. Her work. Her dental hygiene routine. Becky's visit tomorrow. Her preference for chili over pizza. Sewing a been mask for Blythe. Lower 48 weather. Hawaii. Possibilities for a spring break road trip. Dad's upcoming chemo session. There was no pause in the conversation, no comfortable breaks. Whatever silence was quickly filled by a new topic. 

As the evening went on, I chastised myself for not retreating at 9:30. Fifteen minutes later, I finally managed to meander downstairs. Mom followed close behind. We examined an old printer (saved from the recycle bin) and found a box of books bound for Title Wave. I sat on my bed, digging out my floss, toothbrush, toothpaste. Still, she hovered in the doorway. 

At long last, she gathered up her pajamas and said her good nights. At the echo of her footsteps on the stairs, I breathed a little easier. I survived the flurry of stories. 

Mom and I don't agree on a great many things. I often have difficulty trusting her word or believing her sincerity, but I would choose her over just about anyone else to accompany me to a big fancy party where I know few people. In a heartbeat. 

This morning got me out of sorts. 

Josh's dad, who I am already not a huge fan of, called Josh this morning. He was hungry, he explained. He wanted to go out to eat. I told Josh today wasn't a good day - we still had groceries to buy and bathrooms to clean, not to mention books to drop off at Title Wave. He'd have to go out with his dad another day. 

Blythe contacted me. She had checked in on Josh's bank account to make sure there was enough money for groceries in it and, well, the contents surprised her. Countless charges to restaurants. An extravagant amount at GameStop. Had I been there when Josh made this outrageous purchase? If so, fine.

Once she said it, I knew the culprit. Kwang had taken Josh to GameStop a few days before. Josh had gotten a new cell case. No specifics on whether he bought it himself or his dad had gotten it as a gift. (But I have my guesses.) There is absolutely no doubt in my mind now what had transpired on that little Father-Son outing. 

No, I explained. It was Kwang. 

She explained Josh had been leaving his debit card at home and hadn't had any issues until Kwang weaseled his way back into his life. And so, it's official in the worst possible way: he hasn't changed since high school. He is still a leech, slowly sucking every bit of value out of anyone and everyone who will let him. 

So, it's really no secret I was pleased I prevented Josh from going out. I had only seen Kwang once and I didn't want to see him for the remainder of my stay. I can't deal with his bullshit. 

And then the dead-beat fucker shows up at the front door. 

I was furious. 

Okay, fine. I was (slightly) above baking the asshat a large pan of ex-lax brownies, but I was not above severing his financial lifeline. I made Josh leave his debit card and all of his extra cash at home. I needed them for groceries, I explained, without feeling bad about lying. 

They went to breakfast. The receipt showed Kwang had paid for the meal. I felt vindicated, but sad - for Josh. The most tragic part of this entire situation? Josh really does want to have a relationship with his dead-beat dad. He's swallowed up by Kwang's charisma and easygoing nature. What he doesn't see - and may never see - is Kwang's inability to love anyone but himself. 

It's a well-worn joke in my family that whatever meal Dad's eating at that moment, he's actually planning the next one. His life revolves around food. He's always had a healthy appetite and unhealthy eating habits, ones that have been inherited by the rest of us. Even myself, arguably the daughter most conscientious about what she puts into her body, struggles with her relationship with food. 

Dad calls me every day with a new shopping list. "Pick up milk," he says on Monday. Tuesday, I'm picking up the celery, carrots, and parsley he needs to make a vegetable broth. By Wednesday, Mom's run out of bananas and needs a couple from the store. Thursday? Sour cream. Friday? Extra-strength Tylenol. Oh, and don't forget the tomatoes. Just two is fine. Saturday? Is there a Costco run in your future? 

I've blown through the $100 he gave me for store purchases in two days.

My sister and her husband get back on Saturday night. I'll be staying with Mom and Dad while they are in quarantine. Dad's not a complete invalid, but his health is fragile. It only makes sense. 

I've decided to shop their pantry as much as possible. They've got a lot of food collecting dust, the cans and boxes waiting in meal limbo. They possess a frightening amount of food in various stages of decay in their refrigerator which will not be touched. (Not by me, anyway.) I've strongly considered storing my food in the mini fridge downstairs just to keep it away from the science experiments stored in the kitchen.  

I've mentally chosen easy items to build my meals on. A can of chickpeas, leftover celery, and a box of crackers? Hello, tuna-ish. Canned tomatoes and a box of pasta? Vegan bolognese. They've got pre-packaged Indian food. Add some rice or naan bread and it would make a perfect lunch. 

I fear Dad is living vicariously through me with these many store runs. He misses food, I know. Not eating has been frustrating for him. The added stress of taking care of him has caused me to revert back to some of my own poor eating habits. Perhaps this move to Mom and Dad's will give all of us the little push we need to re-examine food. 

Dad called this morning, excited. He'd finally had a bowel movement after a week. It was no surprise it had taken this long - he hadn't been eating well for a while now simply because it has been too difficult for him to do so. He was so pleased by this turn of events that he said, "I love you" twice during our goodbyes. Dad just doesn't do that. 

He had his hernia appointment today. The doctors tried to fix it using external methods, but they couldn't because the tear was too small to shift everything around. He'll have to wait until after his chemo treatments until they can do surgery. It's unfortunate, and I'm sure Dad's disappointed, but it makes my planning a little easier. I'll be able to go home within a couple of weeks, with the intent to return before his surgery sometime in June. 

Dad's always said "life is cyclical." We are born, helpless, dependent on our parents. Then we grow up and have children of our own. At some point, we become old enough that even the simplest tasks become impossible. Our bodies give out. Our children need to help us as we degrade back to an infant, complete with naps and mashed food and diaper changes. 

I didn't have the full cognizance to understand this then, when I was young, a teenager. I certainly do now, now that I am a grown woman, a parent. I've wiped my kids' butts. I mashed up food for them. I helped them when they fell down. And now I'll be doing this for my parents. Perhaps I'll be lucky enough to that my kids will someday do the same for me.