Vacation?
There is no vacation when you have to take care of your 96-year-old father. My children weren't as much work. Plus, they were cuter. Anyway...
My wife and I recently took my father across the country for his family reunion. Every year we travel across the country for it because that's where they all live, across the country.
"That's my idea of happiness." I tell my wife. "A large, loving, close-knit family... all living in another city."
My wife laughs, but she doesn't disagree.
"That's because your family is like an Almond Joy," she says. "Mostly sweet, but with a couple of nuts."
Now it's my turn to laugh.
There's two sayings that come to mind.
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
Those who refuse to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
That pretty much describes our family reunions. A bunch of old people who refuse to learn from the past and continue to get together once a year no matter how inconvenient it is for anybody. At these affairs grudges are remembered, old wounds are opened, new arguments are started, but, by the end of it, we're all crying in each other's arms because we're sad to see everybody go.
Well, everybody else is, at least.
Well, everybody else is, at least.
At 95, it's physically hard on my Dad. During the reunion, he's tired, he's grumpy, and he's mad about all the baseball he's missing. Flying back home, he always swears that he'll never go again, but, like childbirth, he forgets the pain by the time the next one comes around, and tell us if we won't go with him, then, by golly, he'll go on his own.
"Remember last year, Dad?" we'll remind him.
"What about last year?" he'll ask us, not remembering.
"You swore it was the last time."
"The last time for what?"
"The last time you were going to go."
"Go where?"
"To the family reunion. You swore that you were never going to go again."
"No, I didn't."
"Yes, you did."
"No, I didn't."
How do I argue with that? All I can say is that it was hard on my Dad last year, and the year before that. And the year before that. And elderly people don't get any better with time.
Prior to leaving, my wife buys him some new t-shirts. If it was up to my father he would wear the same old grey sweater with the same old grey pants with the same 0ld once-white-now-turning-grey t-shirt with the same old athletic shoes he swears doesn't fit him but that he wears all the time anyway.
My wife is happy when she gives my Dad anything new, and she's happy now when she gives him the t-shirts. I don't know why, but she loves doing things for him. And my Dad repays that happiness by complaining to her. Blah, blah, blah. He doesn't complain to me, because I don't listen. I'm not the saint my wife is.
"They're too big," he gripes.
"They're too soft," he protests.
"The sleeves are too long," he objects.
He tries them on. They fit perfectly.
"Hmmm, ahhhh, hmmm," he hems and haws. He's stuck at what to say because there's nothing to complain about. "Well," he finally says, "I guess they fit okay."
"They're better than your old ones," I tell him, not wanting him to harsh on my wife's happiness.
"My old what?"
"Your old t-shirts."
"No, they're not."
"Yes, they are."
"No, they're not."
"Yes, they are."
"Which ones?" he challenges.
"The ones with the stains on them," I tell him.
"Which ones have stains on them?"
"All of them."
"I like them with stains."
No, really. He said that.
It's the same thing with the socks. Blah, blah, blah.
"They're too long," he grumbles.
"They're too big," he grouses.
"They're too thick," he groans. "You know I don't like them when they're too thick."
He tries them on. Again, they fit perfectly.
I can see my Dad. He's eyes are bulging out from the effort of trying to find something to criticize about the socks.
"Isn't that better than wearing socks with holes in them?" my wife tells him.
"I like them with holes," he tells her.
No, really. He said that, too.
What he should have said was, "How much did everything cost? Because I'd like to pay you for them."
In an alternate reality, he probably did say that. I guess I'll have to be satisfied with that.
After a day or so of him wearing his new socks, I tell my wife that he really seems to like his new knee-highs."
"They weren't knee-highs when I bought them," she tells me.
Raising My Father
RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com
jimduchene.blogspot.com Fifty Shades of Funny
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