survival

The mother is gone. Not a moment too soon either.

As predicted, I spent the whole visit catering to my mother's inability to move. This ranged from walking VERY slowly everywhere. Think 90-year-old with a walker. Yes, that slow. To driving her to the front entrance of every place we took her, then I would have to drive around like a crazy person looking for a parking spot while Belinda suffers through yet another one of her often repeated stories while waiting for me to return. While she is droning away and poor Belinda is trying to pretend to be interested, she would smoke a cigarette or two and blow smoke in the poor girl's face. She has to do this since we won't let her smoke in the car or the apartment and my driving around looking for parking is her only chance to get her fix.

I think all the second-hand smoke must have shortened Belinda's life by a year or two just on this visit alone. If that doesn't get her my mothers hideous (and generously applied) perfume will.

I love my mom very much. She really is very sweet and kind and wonderful, but when she comes to visit me, I just don't know what to do with her. It's all made even worse because she doesn't tell me what she wants to do. She just says, "I'm in your hands." Or, "Whatever you want to show me is just fine." COME ON MOM, THROW ME A FUCKING BONE HERE!

Thanks for the kind comments JustAgirl and testypea on my last post. I appreciate your sympathy and I appreciate the excellent suggestion on how to deal with her. Next time I may just try it.