Day #78 Writing Through COVID-19: Battle of the Spoons

As a mother of five, my mom prepared and served approximately one gazillion meals over the past 60 years. Her cupboards were stacked with Corelle plates and Libby glassware. Our rotating chores were "set, clear, put away dishes," a jingle that still rings in my head like a tune. The placing-using-clearing-washing sequence was an unquestioned rhythm of our lives.

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On my parents' first day in my basement 10 weeks ago, I reconfigured the sink/mirror anteroom of a bathroom into a mini-kitchen where they could wash dishes and store them in what used to be a towel cabinet. During the first few days, my mom couldn't remember where she'd put the dishes, so I stuck a Post-It note on the mirror (with an arrow) reminding her where to look.

Each day I prepare and deliver meals to my parents. From time to time they make a fruit salad.

This system has worked pretty well. My parents are capable of setting their own table and usually do. When they forget, I help. No big deal.

But what IS a big deal is my mother's dish cupboard. Today, for the 50th time, she told me she only has two spoons. 

This is not true. She has two teaspoons, two soup spoons, and whatever serving spoons have accumulated since I last gathered them up. 

"We're low on bowls," she says. I check her cupboard and see two bowls--the maximum they will ever need at any one meal.

"Where did all our glasses go?" she asks (again). I show her she has plenty (two 12-oz, two 10-oz) to set her table for two.

"I don't know where all my dishes have disappeared to," she says, brow tight.

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Today I called my sister Adrienne to unload. Our mother's continued obsession with not having enough dishes is driving me crazy. Adrienne reminded me that for 60 years our mom's dish cupboard looked a certain way: stacked high, ready to serve her large family and drop-in friends. When she looks at her current cupboard, she worries. It doesn't look right.

I've read that hoarders stockpile supplies to combat the anxiety of running out. I hear that same anxiety in my mother's voice when she tells me she doesn't have enough spoons. But rather than just give her more spoons, I find myself digging in my heels: I tell her she doesn't NEED any more spoons.

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On one level, I'm trying to keep things simple. My mother washes the dishes after every meal. Two place-settings is enough. Why can't she accept this? 

Then I challenge myself to look deeper: My mom has adapted amazingly well to her vastly changed circumstances over the past three months. I do not need to turn spoons into a fight.

I have ordered six more Corelle bowls from Amazon.
I will add more spoons to my mom's stockpile.

I can let this one go. 

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison