As Mother’s Day approached this year, I despaired that it would fall short for my 82-year-old mom. How could this day possibly be made special for her in the age of a contagious virus that puts her at risk if she’s exposed to anyone, including her children and grandchildren? No dinner out, no family gathered around the dining room table. Then I realized the gift that is most precious has been right in front of me: The gift of time.
The gift of time is something we all have learned to treasure in the past two months. Yes, this forced stay-at-home has been trying, for sure. Just like nearly everyone else I talk with, I’m eating and drinking too much, not exercising enough, my brain feels like mush most days and the inability to just roam feels suffocating. But I also feel so blessed to have had time that I never would have had otherwise.
I’ve been sheltering in place with my parents for nearly two months, moving in just before the stay-at-home order to help keep them safe before, during and after my dad’s colon cancer surgery in March. He had to be in the hospital alone; I showed him how to FaceTime before he left. I stayed with Mom as we prayed for Dad’s healthy recovery, then remained afterward, the person in our family best able to stay isolated enough to temporarily live with them. Once I was there, I took on the duties of ordering groceries and doing Kroger pickups, coordinating food dropoffs with my siblings and making breakfast. My parents LOVE my french toast and omelettes, they say. I have a feeling it’s ruined them for their daily restaurant breakfasts, which were routine before this pandemic and shutdown.
Through it all, I’ve had time, all day every day, to spend with the folks who made me who I am. While I’ve taken charge of pandemic-related tasks, I’ve also returned to the cocoon of my childhood. I have my certain “seat” at the table. I know to brew Dad’s coffee JUST as breakfast is finishing because he likes it hot, just as he likes his food. He cooks the bacon, because it has to be crispy, crispy, crispy. Dad now reminds ME to take my mask with me and to wipe off the groceries before bringing them in the house. We say prayers before every meal (again, bringing me back to childhood). Mom and I laugh as Dad recites “Betty had some bitter butter, so she made the butter better” or whatever that silly ditty is. It’s one of a million Dadisms.
Mom and I finish off “Okie Dokie” with “Artichok-ee.” We take walks most days, and gradually we’ve made our all the way to the corner of the street, with Dad and Mom arm in arm and me wrestling my crazy sweet dog, Cheyenne. I make smoothies every morning; they both prefer tropical. I’ve learned that after emptying the dishwasher and putting dirty dishes in it I need to put dishwasher soap in the compartment so everyone knows the dishes are dirty and not clean. I’ve stopped making fun of Dad for buying so much at Costco; his excessive stash has meant not buying any napkins, tissues, soap or paper towels since this thing began (although we have had to rely on toilet paper donations a few times). We have had to order a ton of eggs, bread and butter, however. So. Much. Butter.
I hear little stories. One day, while going through old mementos, Dad found the matchbook he saved from the night he met my mother. It nearly brought me to tears when be brought it out, and they reminisced about the night. “Do you know your dad is the best dad in the world?” Mom will ask me. “Yes, I do,” I reply, truthfully. “I really hit the jackpot, didn’t I?” she’ll say. “Yes, you did,” I reply.
“I love you my darling,” Dad will say with a kiss as we sit down for a night of TV. When I think of all the years when we lived in a 900-square-foot house with one bathroom, the six of us, and didn’t kill each other, I now know it’s partly because at the heart of it all was this enduring love. OK, well, maybe it was a little luck, too.
Every evening, we pour our cocktails (Southern Comfort on the rocks for mom, Manhattan for Dad, a beer or glass of wine for me) and watch TV for two hours, sometimes more. We’ve made our way through all of “Better Call Saul” and started “Breaking Bad” and “Tiger King” before abandoning those. Mom wasn’t a fan. We watched all of “Virgin River” and are in Season 4 of “Outlander.” Dad fast-forwards through the racy sex scenes while Mom chides him and tells him to “leave it on! Come on, John!” I walk out of the room when Mom gets her way.
Seriously, tell me this isn’t a gift?
Mom and I have played, I’d guess, more than 100 hours of games in the past seven weeks. Typically, in the afternoon or evening we’ll tackle Colorku, the Sudoku-like game with colored marbles. We’ve played more than 100 games of that alone. We’ve recently graduated to Rummikub, with forays into Aggravation and Gin Rummy. We’ve tackled a couple of puzzles. We’ve laughed over the fact that both of us have minds sharp enough to play games that test us but we can’t remember whose turn it was if we get up to do something and come back to the game a few minutes later. Mom’s short-term memory is not good, but she’s sharp as hell, and we are well-matched at games that require logic and processing. It’s been good for both of us.
I was blessed with a wonderful childhood, filled with love. That love overshadowed the tough times, when Dad was laid off or when there were the inevitable challenges every family faces. Because that love just overshadowed it all. This pandemic has been a huge reminder of WHY I grew up to be such a positive and strong woman, able to take on my own challenges. I was taught from early on to do so.
My parents have always been my biggest cheerleaders, and have been there for me at every turn. When I chose to move to another state for college, moved to Indiana for my first job, decided to have a child and raise her myself. Through too many job changes to count, including major decisions to leave stable jobs for startups (twice), both times resulting in layoffs. “Do you need any help? Do you need money? What can we do?” That has been the soundtrack of my life, even as I did well in my career and managed transitions between jobs. Recently, my dad had me stop at the bank for cash, just to have it in case it was needed. When I got home, he put five $20 bills on the table and declared, “Take it. It’s walking-around money.” I explained that I wasn’t spending cash, and that I wasn’t actually “walking around” anywhere. “Take it anyway. You never know when you might need it.” OK, Dad. Can’t fight the Dad train.
I write these words as I sit in my favorite little sunroom nook in my condo, 44 miles away from my parents’ home, the day before Mother’s Day. I’ll return before Mom awakes on Sunday to make her breakfast. I have been making the trip across town the last three weeks, and staying a night here, sleeping in my own bed, feeling the comfort of my own things and enjoying the solitude. I can’t lie, I love my time alone, and I cherish the day a week I’m spending here. But at the same time, I truly consider these past two months a blessing, and there’s no one (except for my wonderful daughter) with whom I’d rather spend this extended, forced time at home than my parents. And as they have always been there for me, it feels right to be able to turn that around, even a little, to be there for them. But really, it’s more that we are there for each other.
As I watch people struggle during this pandemic, so many friends and acquaintances out of work or suffering depression, I know how lucky I am. The evidence of it surrounds me like a blanket, every day now. My dad, making Mom and me ice cream cones every night about 9 p.m. I have tried to say no; it doesn’t work. He brings me one anyway. Mom, asking me at least once a day if I need anything washed, if I need new towels, or “Can I get you anything?” Literally, every day. You’d think going from having a 1,700-foot two-story condo to myself to living with two parents in a two-bedroom condo would be an adjustment. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t. I so miss my queen bed, with six pillows; the twin hospital bed in the extra room/office at my parents’ condo is fine but not the same. I have never been tidy; now my untidiness is thrust upon others, although I do try to keep my dirty clothes pile to the little corner in the extra room. But my teapot, tea, dog leash, tennis shoes are strewn about, and my parents don’t even complain. I sometimes think: When did they become so tolerant? And while set in their ways over some things, when did they become so “easy”? So while I miss my “space” my parents are freely sharing theirs with me, without complaint. They in fact tell me often how much they love having me there, and thank me often for staying with them.
As Mother’s Day approaches, and I count my blessings knowing I’ll be spending the day with the woman whom I adore above all others, I feel so sad that my siblings have had to stay a garage-length away for so long, and won’t be able to – maybe for the first time ever – hug Mom on Mother’s Day. We exist these days talking for a few minutes during food or supply dropoffs, my parents in the laundry room talking to my siblings or the grandkids as they stand 15 feet away at the opening to the garage. Early on, my sisters both told me how hard it was not to give Mom and Dad hugs. As I hugged my own daughter for the first time last weekend during a “halfway between Detroit and Chicago” picnic lunch in Holland, I realized what they are missing. It was pure heaven to hug that kid. And yet both my parents and the rest of the family have been without hugs for two months.
I guess I shouldn’t fret. Mom herself isn’t doing so. “We’ll have Zoom!” she says. Yes, my parents are Zoom veterans now, able to grab their water glasses and get into the Zoom staging area in a matter of 2-3 minutes, eager to see the faces of their kids and grandkids, if only virtually. We started by Zooming every day, and did that for a few weeks, before gradually settling back to 2-3 times a week.
And while so many others have to celebrate Mother’s Day through nursing home windows, Zoom video conferences, FaceTime or across the endless stretch of six feet, I’ll give my Mom extra hugs for all those who can’t. I’ll make her a great breakfast, play whatever games she wants, and refrain from nagging her about taking a walk or eating something she shouldn’t. Because time is a blessing. And I’m going to enjoy Every. Single. Second.
