The windmills of my mind

According to the Catholic Church, a child enters the age of reason at age seven. They now know right from wrong, are aware of what they do, and know what they do. Therefore, what better time to introduce the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

If that age is correct, and I have no reason to doubt it in any way, then I have been tilling at changing my mother for the past forty five years. Or at least I have been aware of this for forty five years.

I have quite the Quixotic challenge here. She refuses to change, I refuse to leave her alone. And so the dance goes on.

Allow me to elaborate. Today, for example, we were going to get some food for dinner. Why? Because mom was tired of the food we had. I jumped on my trusty but dilapidated steed and challenged the windmill.

We have plenty of food at home. Its silly to buy more when we have so much. (They had to take out the vegetable drawer from the fridge so they could add more food)

But I am tired of that food.

I read into that statement . . . “But I want you to have something else to eat. I know you like chicken strips. Let’s get some.”

I think I found the mistake. I am trying to interpret her statements. Give me some credit here, I have only been doing THAT for about oh . . . forty five years. I am a lousy interpreter, in case you were wondering.

A short side track here . . . I’ve been battling a sore throat and cough all day. OK, back to the game.

I bravely stood my ground and said that I make food on Sundays that I eat the rest of the week. Being single I can do that. Well, I have to do that. Hard to cook for one me.

The windmill responded by throwing a bag of potato chips onto the cart and saying that “The salt is good for your sore throat.”

Nice one mom. Nice one.

I made up my mind then. I would go and buy me a nice bottle of whiskey and make a hot toddy for my throat tonight. Better tasting that potato chips.

Its hard to change an eighty one year old’s mind. Specially when they think you are making such a huge sacrifice by merely showing up. Between you, me and Sancho Panza here . . . its not. I love riding the train and I look forward to getting away. Maybe not for this long, but I do.

I don’t know if it is a sacrifice. I don’t see it as such. To me a sacrifice is hard, difficult, tough . . . something like a Herculean task.

Yeah, like changing my mother’s mind.

Sacrifice to me is what I will be doing when I get back to the ATX. I am changing my whole diet. Going vegetarian for about two weeks and then adding WAY more veggies and fruits into my diet.

That’s a sacrifice. A needed and possible sacrifice.

But a sacrifice.

On a rather interesting note, my windmill just came to check to see if I had fallen asleep with the lights on.

What’s the big deal?

Its not good for you.

Like her falling asleep on the couch in the living room with the TV on is good for her.

See what I deal with? See my task? See my windmill?

I also see the fact that I have been tending at this windmill for quite a while now.

Dad’s another story.

He sleeps.

A lot.

Today I caught him waking up and saying mom’s nickname for him . . . “Manolín.”

I don’t know what to do about him.

He does laundry but never cleans the lint catcher. It was like padding by the time I took it out. You could have used it in clothing.

He sits next to me while I am checking out my Facebook admiring the use of my fingers when I click on this or that.

He manages to press the wrong button on their computer and away goes all the information in the computer. All of mom’s work, all the emails, email accounts, etc.

Gone. With the wind. With the windmill.

He tried to read the book I gave him and he seems to be able to do so. I tell him he needs new glasses. He knows it. That’s about the extent of it.

He just sits and watches. Doesn’t do a thing.

He doesn’t say anything to mom.

He just allows her to go through all she has to go through.

He just lets her be.

Wow.

I have a pretty wise dad.

Patience, people . . . for the Lord is laughing.

God has a sense of humor. No really. Look around. Look in the mirror. Look at what happens to you.

His funniest bit is when you ask Him for something and he puts you in situations where you will have to use whatever you asked for. Kind of like when you ask your boss for more money, and he makes you work more. Not quite what I wanted but, I get it.

Case in point: patience. If you ask for patience, He will create some interesting circumstances around you.

Walmart, haven for patience.
Elderly parents, creators of situations for patience.
Me? I felt like a frustrated innocent bystander.

Let's start with Dad deciding he likes those little electrical carts. He can walk OK. His knees give him some trouble. Just yesterday he was Speedy Gonzalez all over the supermarket. Today he is on the electrical scooter. Mom laughs it off. I'm wearing flip flops and can only imagine the possibilities.

So we are trying out a new recipe. Calls for rice. Mom gets Uncle Ben's (that's the instant stuff). Me: "Its supposed to be regular rice." Mom: "That IS our regular rice."

Commence eye rolling. I can hear God giggle.

Scene: walking by the seafood section. Me: "Catfish. That's my next challenge. I want to learn to cook it and not fry it." Dad: "Don't like it. Its farmed." Me: "Lots of fish are farmed now. Too much demand." Mom: "Its like having artificial children."

God just snorted. Heard it? I did.

Dad: "I don't like what they add to farmed fish." (Actually, I don't either. I'll buy it wild caught when I can). Me: "Mom just bought some chicken. Do you know what they add to chicken." Mom gives me her usual sad eyed look. Dad: "Yeah, but that chicken is for you."

Out loud laugh now.

I know this is funny. And if it didn't happen to me, I would think it is hilarious. Sometimes, I just feel frustrated. I don't want to be a rock that will gather moss and stay the way it is no matter what. I want to be able to adapt and change.

Only, I'm a bit afraid to ask for that.

Did you hear that? I heard a giggle.

Los achaques de la edad

That's a hard word to translate. Achaques. According to Google translator it is "aches and pains." That's as far as it goes. It does not explain the slow down, the fall asleep anywhere, the lack of energy, the waking up at all hours even if you don't need to go to the bathroom, the cold compresses on joints . . . oh so many things.

Achaques.

Sounds like attacks doesn't it. The attacks of old age. Matter of fact that's what my spell checker would like to change it to. Attacks. Old age does attack you. Sneaks up slowly. A pop here, a groan there, besides the odd and permanent grey hair. The girth just, well, its just keeps on doesn't it?

Seems like I need to exercise a hell of a lot more now to lose way too little. Youth is definitely wasted on the young. They have NO idea how good they have it.

Then again, I like my age (that'll be 52 by the way). I feel like I hit my stride. I can focus and stay on focus (well, most of the time). I have experience. I have knowledge I did not have when I began my teaching journey. I feel like I am slicker than ever.

My doctor once told me that we are (and we both are about the same age) at a great time in our lives. That between the knowledge we have, the experience we have and the lack of fear . . . well, we can sure get a lot more done than all those young puppies companies and districts are pouring money into.

We are just inconvenient to those large corporations, etc. We are inconvenient because we are paid more due to the amount of time being with them.

Inconvenient? Inconvenient is that I need reading glasses to write this. Inconvenient is that I don't have the muscle mass of some of my 16 year old students. But I am a sly, well seasoned old cat. What I don't have in muscle, I have in cunning.

Part of the achaques I guess.

Achaques. Funny word. Achaques.

My grandmother would explain her aches, pains and overall lack of health as "los achaques de la edad." Never mind that she knelt for a good part of the evening, on tiled floor, while saying a few rosaries and other prayers in her candle lit room. I am sure even God was laughing - "¿Achaques? Mi'ja. E' que tu no te cuida'." (Attacks? My girl, you just don't take care of yourself). I gave God a puertorrican accent. Seems to go well with the God I grew up with.

Oh I have your inconvenient muscle spasm. And the now becoming more popular groans. And those damned grey hairs cropping up everywhere. But I also feel better than ever. I can do this. I can be even better than I was when I began.

I am up for retirement in about two years. Will I retire then? Doubtful.

What to do on my next life? Don't know yet.

But I will be great at it. And very well seasoned.

And oh, those achaques will make it a bit more fun.

Yeah, this post was for me. I wanted to do this for me. I'll ad more info on my parents later since I am here for the week. But this one. This one. Mine, all mine.