It was Friday. a Blissful, gleeful Bastille day kicking off a long Labor Day Weekend. It was the culmination of a disastrous few weeks. It was a sign that the many fires in my life, both literal and figurative, were back to simmer and I could look forward to a quick get away before 100 things demanded my immediate and undivided attention again.
I tossed my work bag into my favorite chair, marched upstairs and stripped out of my sweaty, overly warm office attire, welcoming the familiar cargo shorts and tank. I took a minute to snuggle the cat who climbs my leg anytime I stand still, insisting on some cradling before I do another single thing.
Already feeling the freedom, I headed to the kitchen to fuel my caffeine laced corn syrup addiction. I rinsed my over used thermal cup and reached into the freezer for an ice refill, humming to myself and thinking about things I would get done in all the “free” weekend time. I stopped cold when there was not only no ice in the freezer, but the apparatus was suspiciously missing as well.
Spying the ice bucket next to the sink, I called, “Mom? What happened to the ice in the freezer?”
“I don’t know.” she said, genuine puzzlement in her voice, “But, that reminds me, I found a puddle of water in front of it this morning after you left.” Now her tone gained a slightly accusing edge. “I cleaned it up so it wouldn’t hurt the wood floor.”
“Then,” she continued, working up a good admonishment, “I found a bunch of water in that bucket thingie too. That’s where the water was dripping onto my floors from! But, no. No, I haven’t seen your ice.”
I rounded the corner between the fridge and mom’s sitting room so I could meet her eyes.
“Mom,” I said, biting back my temper and choosing gentle tones and simple words, “Ice becomes water when it melts.” I carefully watched her absorb that concept before I continued. She looked back at me expectantly, according to our unspoken agreement, letting me know she was ready for the next piece: “Mom, ice doesn’t melt into water in a working freezer.”
There were several moments of silence before the small, “Oh. No. I guess it probably doesn’t.”
Then, even smaller, “This is the kind of thing that made your father want to strangle me, isn’t it?”
Completely out of options, I burst into uproarious laughter, hugged my sweet, oblivious mother, and assured her that she was quite correct. It took another moment before she had to laugh too.
Because it’s not the Alzheimer’s this time. It is a mechanical connection that she, in her focus on keeping our happy home, would never have made at any point in her life. Mom’s a dreamer, a creator, a forest fairy, flitting through a life just adjacent to ours. So, in that moment, we both knew that in this round at least, the monster stalking my mother’s mind definitively lost.
This? This is just Life With Mom.