In my own home, I am queen of the castle. Duchess of the Dwelling. Empress of the Estate.
I’m a full-grown adult with a degree and a career. I drive my own car. But when I go up to visit my parents, who are in their 90s and live in an apartment for seniors, it’s like I’m a kid again. It’s confusing, especially because now, our traditional roles are not as clear cut. In fact, they’ve been flipped on their head.
They are the parents, but I’m reminding them to take their medicine and buckle their seatbelts.
As a child, I looked up to my Dad, who held my hand firmly in his when we crossed a busy street. Now, I extend my arm so he can grab onto it to walk across the uneven asphalt in a parking lot.
Growing up, Mom taught me how to bake bread, to tie my shoelaces, how to read, and endless other things. Now, I am showing her how to navigate her new laptop and how to scroll through pictures on my smartphone. I occasionally order things for her on Amazon because she doesn’t trust buying anything over the internet.
Other things haven’t changed. Mom insists I don’t drink enough milk. Dad wishes I didn’t stop going to church. I still desperately want their approval. When Dad is out of the room, Mom complains that he doesn’t help with dishes. When Mom is out of the room, Dad complains that she just can’t seem to throw anything away. But after 68 years of marriage, there is a softness behind their complaints. The minor irritations that seemed to build over time are receding gently into the tide. Now, they are each other’s lifelines. They are holding onto each other more, and I marvel at the way their life has settled into a comfortable rhythm.
There’s also the issue of the thermostat. For years, Mom ran hot. Dad was cold. Echoes of epic thermostat wars remain in my memory from my childhood.
“It’s burning up in here!” my mother would yell.
“Then go outside and cool off!” Dad would respond. “I’m freezing!”
Well, guess who needs to cool off now? Granted, I’m a “woman of a certain age,” but spending two nights sleeping on the couch in their living room feels like being locked in a sauna. While they both pad back and forth wearing slippers, flannel pajamas and robes, I dramatically throw off my blankets, suspicious that despite the comfortable temperature outside, they have turned up the heat. Thank goodness for the ceiling fan and the sliding door that I open wide as soon as they retire to their room — I stand beside it for a few moments, greedily breathing in cool night air. I still wake up slick with perspiration.
I’m so lucky to have my parents around this long. Despite their age, their minds are sharp, they enjoy their neighbors, and events in their community. Dad is active in the local chapter of American Legion and sings in a choir. Mom still teaches knitting and volunteers at a local farm. I admit that now, each time I say goodbye at the end of a visit, I get a bit choked up once I’m out of their sight. It crosses my mind that this could be the last time when everything is “normal” and virtually the same. Maybe we should all live our lives that way, aware that any time spent with a loved one could be our last.
No matter how old they get, they will always be my parents. I will always need their approval. It remains to be seen if I will start drinking more milk or go back to attending church regular. But some things will never change: I will always want to make them proud.
I will always be their daughter.
