In bed resting before we have to leave to fetch youngest son at work. Going to buy a new Crockpot as a treat. Mine is probably 12 years old or so. I remember second son loaning me money for it, and where we bought it isn't even there anymore. Still works fine but is unsightly and I always tie a cloth around it when I take it to church. One handle is missing too and the paint is chipping off the sides. Would like one with the warming feature, and the new ones have that. And I can get it in red. Sold.
Feeling a sense of detachment with my mom after my husband's epiphany about letting her do whatever she wants, or doesn't want. I can breathe. She's probably relieved at not hearing what she should do. I'm relieved at not saying it.
Quiet in my spirit. Going about my business. Living my life and not hers.
It's felt like nagging, asking her to take a turn around the house, to drink her water, to go to the bathroom. Hasn't meant to be that way, though. It's been said more with the intent to help. Don't walk, get weak. Don't drink, get dehydrated. Don't go to the bathroom, sit in wet clothes. Cause and effect.
Even broken people have a responsibility. She's not mentally ill, but lacks some resources that the strokes stole. She can carry on a very sane phone conversation so is sensible in some ways.
Me? I just feel a tiny bit free.