Sundays are the only day of the week I don't start my parents' day with a poem. Instead, I set their breakfast tray alongside my laptop so they can participate in their Zoom Sunday School Class. An hour later I switch them over to watch their church service on Facebook.
While my parents worshipped this morning, I bent to the god of long, slow distance and ran four glorious miles on the T-Bone Trail. I love this part of summer. My running routine is falling into place. The temperatures are still bearable. The green is exotic.
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So I felt good when I got home from the run. I had 20 minutes in front of me to relish the endorphins while reading on the deck before preparing (another! another!) meal.
I do enjoy serving my parents well-balanced meals, and doing so has provided needed structure to my days. I've discovered that for breakfast, my dad only drinks coffee--unless I bring him a toasted muffin or bagel. My mom eats a bowl of cereal, but will also drink orange juice and slice up a banana if one is available. For lunch and supper, I make sure they have all the food groups. (My parents hearken to that dated, but basically solid model of the healthy eating.) My parents are on the slim side. Keeping them eating well is important. Providing variety and flavor, while using up the leftovers, is almost a game!
But I have not had a break for the past 84 days. That means I have prepared and delivered (attractively! creatively!) 252 consecutive meals, times two, since I then lay out a similar meal for my husband and myself upstairs.
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So yes, meal prep has been a pleasant and purposeful part of my days during this interminable quarantine. But too much of a good thing is still Too Much.
I tell you this because this morning I may have already been feeling an undercurrent of resentment that my post-run relaxation would be drawn to a close by the demands of lunch when my mom called from the basement: "Alli, can you bring down a plunger?"
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Let's examine this next layer of resentment.
I have celebrated many things about my parents living with me during the pandemic. But I am not a saint. At least in this moment, I don't think I could willingly tend my parents if their physical needs were intimate and messy.
A call for a plunger was not what I wanted to hear as I relaxed after my run.
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Nevertheless, I took a plunger downstairs, bracing to perform the needed plumbing task, when my dad met me at the door to the bathroom and said he'd take care of it.
I abdicated plunger duty to my feeble and faltering father. He headed toward "the problem" while I gathered the remains of their breakfast onto a tray.
Only a couple of flushes later, my father emerged from the bathroom, victorious, proudly announcing success in the de-plugging endeavor.
Frankly, I didn't want to hear about it.
"At first I just plunged straight down," my dad began.
(TOO MUCH INFORMATION) blared my inner thoughts.
"Then I went at an angle," my dad continued.
And as if he needed a visual reenactment, he pushed the plunger against the floor--my carpet!--to demonstrate.
I SNAPPED.
"STOP!" I used a tone of voice buried deep within me these past 12 weeks. "PLEASE!" I shouted before bringing my reaction back under check. "Don't put that on the floor...." my message trailed off as my dad lifted the wet plunger off the carpet, where it had collected a fringe of Vern's omnipresent dog hair.
I felt myself recoil. I almost gagged.
My dad sheepishly halted his demonstration while I tried to soften (but not entirely) my reaction with a joking tone.
For crying out loud. Who pushes a wet plunger into the carpet?
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This evening I brought my parents a supper of chicken breast on a bed of rice pilaf (with corn and peas), steamed broccoli, fresh mango and apple slices.
When I came down an hour later with my mother's evening meds, they were still at the table, having finished nearly all of their meal.
"Did you enjoy the mango?" I asked.
"Oh! I didn't know that was mango," my mom said. "I thought that was peaches."
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
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