“Thank you, Mom and Dad,” I say, wiping a not-so-pretend tear from my eye. “Just sit with me. Help me figure something out.”
“Anything!” they say, sitting close, each laying a reassuring hand on my shoulders. “We’ll do anything to help!”
“This is so hard for me . . .” I begin. And now it really is hard. “You’re both so healthy and strong. I know you can handle everything,” I continue, “but . . .” I pull the bag from under my chair and clutch it in my lap.
I take a deep breath. No turning back now. No pretending this moment isn’t what it is. No shirking the responsibility I fought for and won. No not doing what I need to do. I pull the box from the bag, lay it on the table, and blurt out the truth of why I’m here:
“My SISTERS think you need to wear emergency alert call buttons!”
Mom and Dad reel backward with horror. “NO!” they answer in their great big Mom-Dad twin voices.
“Yes!” I say. “Can you believe it?? They think you need help! They made me come here to set up this device and outfit you with call button pendants!”
“NO!” they repeat, leaning away from the box. Leaning so far back in their chairs, I note, they could easily topple over backward and crack their heads on the kitchen floor. And yet . . .
“Yes!” I continue, shaking my head with disbelief and commiseration. “That’s what my SISTERS want! They want you to wear emergency call buttons!”
I look toward Mom and Dad helplessly. Beam inwardly. No longer outnumbered. No longer alone. Mom and Dad lean back in, trying to peek at the nightmare my sisters have sent me to Florida to inflict.
I pull the box toward me, hiding the EZ setup pictures on the label from their view. Ideally I would have had the whole system set up, tested, and working perfectly while they took a nap so I could do my own uncomplicated demonstration. But the twins refused to take a nap earlier and I’m running out of time. I give it another try . . .
“I know how upsetting this is, Mom and Dad,” I say in my most soothing, compassion-filled voice. “Why don’t you both lie down for a little bit and I’ll set it up and we can see how it works?”
“We don’t want to lie down!” they announce, eyes wide open, glaring at the Box.
“You usually take a nap in the afternoon,” I answer. “Go ahead and I’ll—”
“WE DO NOT NEED A NAP!!” they announce more forcefully, eyes flashing at me now.
“How about a snack?” I say, gesturing out of the room. “Sit on the porch with a snack while—”
“NO SNACKS! NO NAPS!”
The twins are turning on me. I wish my sisters were here. I wish they were here instead of me. I need them to navigate this moment. To convince the parents who so proudly still take care of us that they should wear baby monitors around their necks to keep them safe. It was all so logical until I was sitting in the middle of it, and now I can’t stand it. I don’t want Mom and Dad to be old enough to need emergency call buttons. I don’t want to be the one to tell them they’re too fragile to walk down the hall, take a bath, or go to bed without wearing a help device around their necks. I don’t want them to feel humiliated.
I hate that my sisters didn’t have more stamina so one of them would be here instead of me. How am I even related to such lightweights? For once in their lives, couldn’t one of them have been bossier than I was so they would have to be here doing this??!
Now I’m back on the nice solid ground of sibling resentment. It emboldens me to open the box. “My sisters think you need this!” I say pleadingly. “They won’t speak to me if I don’t at least convince you to give it a try!” I see Mom and Dad soften, their eyes fill with compassion. They’ve refereed thousands of sister conflicts. They know I’m stuck in the middle and they want to do anything they can to fix it for me.
I pull the base unit from the box and place it on the counter. They stare. They want to do anything they can to fix it for me—except this.
“DON’T PUT THAT BIG THING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE KITCHEN COUNTER FOR ALL THE WORLD TO SEE!” they protest.
I unplug their phone from the wall . . .
“DON’T UNPLUG OUR PHONE! WE WON’T BE ABLE TO MAKE CALLS!”
I plug the base unit into the phone jack in the wall . . .
“DON’T PLUG THAT IN THERE! THAT’S WHERE OUR PHONE PLUGS IN!”
I plug the landline into the base unit . . .
“DON’T PLUG OUR PHONE INTO THAT BOX! PEOPLE WILL HEAR ALL OUR CONVERSATIONS!”
I push the button on the base unit to test the connection. A voice comes over the box’s speaker: “Hello. This is the monitoring center. Are you ready to . . .”
Pandemonium ensues. Mom and Dad are on their feet, pointing at the box in alarm: “SOMEONE’S LISTENING! THERE’S A STRANGER LISTENING THROUGH THAT BOX! GET HER OUT OF HERE! UNPLUG THAT THING AND GET IT OUT OF OUR HOUSE!”
How much worse could this possibly get, I think. And so . . . I reach into the shipping package, remove the call button pendants that go with the system, and place one around each parent’s neck.
Much worse, it turns out. It could get much worse.
“I AM NOT WEARING SOME OLD-PERSON CALL BUTTON!”
“I DON’T WANT SOMEONE LISTENING TO ME THROUGH MY SHIRT!”
“GET THIS OFF ME GET THIS OFF ME GET THIS OFF ME!!”
In their effort to pull the pendants off, one or both parents accidentally push the call button, which calls the monitoring station, and in seconds the voice is coming out of the box on their kitchen counter again.
“Hello. This is the monitoring center. We received an emergency call at . . .”
“THE STRANGER’S BACK!” Mom and Dad yell. “GET HER OUT OF OUR KITCHEN! WE ARE NOT WEARING THESE NECKLACES! WE DO NOT WANT THAT LADY IN OUR KITCHEN!”
Pendants are flung on the table. Dad yanks the monitoring box cord out of the wall. Mom grabs the box and tries to stuff it back in the shipping package.
I wait for the chaos to stop, the twins to sit, and blood pressures to stabilize.
It takes a while, but when it finally feels safe, I start all over in a nice calm voice. “Millions of people have this system, Mom and Dad,” I say. “It could be a great comfort to you! With the pendants on, you can press the button to get help any time you need it. If you fall and can’t press the button, it will sense you’ve fallen and will send help!”
For a second, I think they’re silent because they actually are comforted. And then we’re off again . . .
“THE BUTTON KNOWS WHAT I’M DOING? I’M NOT WEARING A BUTTON THAT WATCHES EVERYTHING I’M DOING!”
“No, no!” I say. “It only knows if you’ve fallen! If you can’t get up or are unconscious, it calls the paramedics!”
They stop and stare.
“If we’re unconscious, how will the paramedics get in?” they ask.
“We’ll have a lockbox outside your house with a key in it,” I answer.
“WHAT?? NO! WE ARE NOT LEAVING A KEY OUTSIDE FOR STRANGERS TO COME WALTZING IN! IF THERE’S AN EMERGENCY, WE’LL DIAL 911 AND LET THE PARAMEDICS IN OURSELVES!!”
“How will you dial 911 if you’re unconscious?” I ask, my benevolent caregiver patience wearing thin.
They look at me as if I’m the illogical one.
“We’ll dial 911 before we become unconscious!” Dad exclaims. “Honestly, honey! You worry too much!”
I try to regroup. Meanwhile Mom gets up, turns the front burner of the stove on high without putting a pan of anything on it, and walks into the next room looking for something or other. I turn to Dad to point out the fire hazard Mom just created, but Dad’s leaning forward in his chair to pick up packing material that dropped when I opened the shipping box and is on the verge of losing his balance and toppling on his head. I scan the room like I used to for my toddler—like a “What’s Wrong with This Picture?” puzzl
e—and see danger everywhere. Throw rugs with the edges curled up. Pointy table corners. Open staircase. Heavy things on upper shelves. Sharp knives way too close to the edge of the counter. A stack of old magazines on the floor exactly where someone could slide on it.
The twins are both on their feet now, going about their business. Defiant. Determined. Oblivious to all the potential disasters that are so clear to me. The qualities that have kept them so full of life, curiosity, and independence are the same ones that drive my sisters and me insane with worry. But so far no one’s tripped, slipped, fallen, broken a neck, cracked a skull, poked out an eye, or gotten scalded, stabbed, choked, or electrocuted. They’ve done an amazing job of taking care of our family, themselves, and each other without my sisters and me hovering.
I know I need to take a big breath and a little step backward. As much as my sisters and I want to protect them, the best thing we can do to help Mom and Dad stay strong and capable is to let them continue being Mom and Dad. As horrible as we’d feel if something happened when we weren’t guarding against every possible accident, we need to let them be in charge of how and where they live while they’re still so able.
And so I resist the urge to run in front of Dad with pillows in case he falls. I don’t hover over Mom each time she goes near an appliance. When they see me relax a little, I feel them relax. When I quit trying to be the boss, they take over, helping me do what I came to do. As soon as I stop trying to parent them, they resume being the parents helping me. Amazingly, by the time they’re ready to take a nap, they agree to keep the monitoring system call box on the kitchen counter “for now.” Mom shoves it behind the toaster “where no one can see it” with a dish towel over it “so no one can see us!” . . . but it’s there. They also agree to keep their emergency call button pendants. Mom’s keeping hers in her sweater drawer, Dad’s keeping his on a hook in his closet with his neckties. “We’ll run and get them if we have an emergency!” he says, giving me a little hug. “So you never have to worry!”
This is not at all what I expected when I came on this mission. This day, which was plotted as a way for my sisters and me to take care of Mom and Dad, has become, instead, a way for Mom and Dad to take care of my sisters and me. They’re not letting the emergency call system stay in the house because they think it will make them more safe. They’re letting it stay here because it will make us feel more safe. They understand the comfort we’ll have knowing they have a way to call for help, even if the call buttons are buried in their drawers and closets. This is Mom and Dad at their finest, tucking their girls in at night, making sure we have less worry and much better dreams.
I watch them walk back down the hall to their bedroom. Dad still without shoes, socks, knee braces, or his cane. Mom still in slippery slippers, this time balancing a pitcher of bedside water on top of three library books. But they’re okay. I smile because I will have better dreams tonight.
I pull out my phone. There’s a long line of text messages waiting from both sisters:
How’d it go? . . . Are you okay? . . . I’m so sorry for what I said! . . . I feel terrible that you’re there by yourself! . . . Please let me know what happened! . . . You’re the best!
I sit at the table. Feel a big wave a relief. All is forgiven. My sisters and I will recover from this, just as we’ve recovered from many things before. We have to. We have lots still ahead of us and are going to need each other.
I need my sisters now. Need to unload this day and everything I newly understand. Need to pour my heart out to them, tell them how important they are to me. I pick up my phone and smile. Then I type the three special little words that say it all:
“IT’S YOUR TURN.”
16.
DIARY OF A BUBBLE WRAP SCRAP
Saturday, 10:30 a.m.: In a bold act of defiance, I march out to the trash bin and throw away a piece of used, unrecyclable Bubble Wrap. Mother would be mortified.
Pride surges. I march back in the house. I’ve taken a stand for my new commitment to uncluttered living. Rejected Mother’s Way.
10:35 a.m.: Shame takes over. It was a perfectly good piece of Bubble Wrap. Could be used a hundred more times. I march back out to the trash and rescue the scrap from the bin.
10:37 a.m.: Defiance kicks back in. I march the Bubble Wrap back out.
10:39 a.m.: Shame takes over. I march the Bubble Wrap back in.
10:41 a.m.: Defiance. Bubble Wrap out.
10:43 a.m.: Shame. Bubble Wrap in.
10:45 a.m.: I stand in the kitchen, Bubble Wrap clenched in my hand. Worse. A lifetime of birthdays, Christmases, and Mother’s Days is also clenched in that hand. Mom has never thrown out anything with wrap in the name. Not Saran Wrap, not Reynolds Wrap. Not, heaven forbid, anything having to do with gift wrap.
“Oh, the wrapping paper is so beautiful!” Mom exclaims every time a gift is opened. “Here! Let’s carefully peel the tape so the paper doesn’t tear! . . . Wait! I can flatten that out and fold it to use next year! . . . Don’t wad up the tissue paper! I’ll save it for another gift! . . . Wait! Save the ribbon! . . . Save the bow! . . . Save the box! . . . Save the gift bag! . . . DO NOT THROW OUT THE BUBBLE WRAP!!”
After we open gifts on Christmas morning, everyone in the family has a little pile of presents in front of them. Mom—looking as delighted as anyone in the room—has a pile of rescued gift wrap, tissue paper, ribbons, bows, boxes, gift bags, and Bubble Wrap in front of her.
10:48 a.m.: I pry my fingers open, drop the scrap of Bubble Wrap on the counter, grab my car keys, and drive to the store, where I buy a $9 plastic storage bin in which to store used scraps of Bubble Wrap. Pride surges. I’ve found a way to take charge of my own life without being haunted by visions of Mom on Christmas morning.
11:15 a.m.: Shame takes the wheel. Mother would be horrified that I’ve spent $9 on a plastic storage bin when I have perfectly good used cardboard boxes at home. I turn the car, drive to another store to look for a better price. Buy a different plastic storage bin for $6.89. Reduce the guilt by $2.11.
11:45 a.m.: Am almost home when I remember the 20 percent off coupons I have for a different store. Drive there and, since I’m saving so much, buy two storage bins. Why not commit to a real system? I think: one bin for used Bubble Wrap, one for used gift wrap. I can almost feel Mom’s pride, which makes me equal parts happy that I’m pleasing her and irritated that I’m succumbing to her.
12:25 p.m.: Take a detour to a different branch of the same 20 percent off store to see if they happen to have the bins I just bought only both with purple lids, since the last store had only one purple lid and one green lid, and as long as I’m investing in a system, everything should match. I spend most of the drive trying to decide if Mom’s winning because I’m being frugal while buying systems to save scraps of everything, or if I’m winning because I’m developing my own system, which is superior to her system.
12:45 p.m.: This branch has one with a purple lid, but it’s a different brand, so the purple probably won’t match, and the bins will surely be unstackable. It’s way too much effort to run out to the car in the parking lot to do a color and stackability check of what I already own, so I buy four new bins with the extra coupons I have in my purse—one bin with the potentially unmatching purple lid, two with orange lids, in case the purple’s all wrong, and one with a blue lid—thinking I could also expand the system to include a bin for flattened used tissue paper, in which case I could keep one purple, one orange, and one blue and go with a splash-of-color storage tub theme. I no longer feel Mom’s pride. Now I feel her inner conflict. Part of her would cheer my ingenuity and stamina; part of her would lecture me about all the silly, unnecessary expense.
1:17 p.m.: Drive back to store number one. Now that I might be committing to a three-bin system, I need to make sure there isn’t something better that I didn’t consider on my first pass. Store number one, in fact, has a plastic drawer system, wh
ich I didn’t look at before, which could be used not only for Bubble Wrap scraps and pre-used gift wrap, but rescued tissue paper and recycled bows. I buy the drawer system in two different heights and depths because I don’t remember the dimensions of my cabinet space at home and certainly don’t want to waste time driving home and measuring. I channel more inner turmoil from Mom. She’d be mortified by all the charges, except that she’s also a world-class shopper and can get into the joy of the hunt as much as anyone. She taught me to keep shopping when the shopping’s done. She’d be ill, but thrilled about all the possibilities stuffed in my car.
2:00 p.m.: I sit at the kitchen counter and calculate: I spent $97.89 on plastic storage systems today. This includes one $17.99 set of stacking drawers, which I’m keeping, and $79.90 in drawers, bins, and multicolored lids, which are filling the back seat and trunk of my car and will need to be returned.
I pick up the scrap of used Bubble Wrap that started it all, put it in the top drawer of the new $17.99 drawer set to which I’m committing, and sit back to admire it. The manufacturer’s label with its UPS code is stuck right on the front of the drawer and ruins the whole pristine look. I try to peel it off, but only part of the top layer of the label comes off. I try to scrape the rest off with my fingernails. I take the Bubble Wrap out, hold the drawer under hot water, scrub the label with dish soap, scouring powder, and a Brillo pad. I work at it with a knife, Formula 409, and nail polish remover. Now there’s a big scratched patch where I’ve been scrubbing, clawing, and scraping, still covered with a thin, sticky film of glue.
I march into my home office and miraculously find a pack of large self-stick labels. I stick one on the front of the plastic drawer to cover the whole scratched, sticky area, and write Bubble Wrap in Sharpie.
The words aren’t centered on the label. Again I hear Mom’s voice. This time she’s admonishing me with “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.” As irritating as it is to still need to please her, I still need to please her.
Fifty Things That Aren't My Fault Page 9
