Mom & Me Three Archive

    I'm speaking of the cataloguing of links for the dynamic index. I'm halfway through August of this year and it's going pretty fast, now. I imagine I'll be able to start dynamizing the index and setting up a page for it within a few weeks. I'm not going to read through the rest of the journals that might contain material that should be indexed until I've set up the Table of Contents for the main journals.

    For the last several months I've moved my "bed" (which exists in a variety of disguises depending on which futon I'm using or where I'm sleeping) in front of the back Arcadia door, between it and my bedroom door. This allows me complete hearing access to the hall so that I can hear Mom get up in the middle of the night or, if necessary, hear any unusual sounds in her room. As my mother headed down the hall for her nap, today, she stopped just before her door, gazed into my bedroom and asked, "Your bed looks soooo comfortable! May I take my nap on it this afternoon?"
    My bed is as comfortable as it looks. It's probably the most comfortable bed in the universe. It's current base is a single futon. That is covered by a full feather bed. I sleep under a winter-strength down comforter. Above this is a thick, king size Italian wool spread with which one of my sisters gifted me. Over this, for the convenience of The Little Girl and because it is a family heirloom, I've thrown a thin, odd-sized chenille spread that came to us from my father's side of the family in North Carolina. It apparently belonged to my fraternal grandmother and was sent to us as a keepsake some 20 years after she died, when they finally cleaned out her attic and sold her home and land. My head is cradled and my hands are warmed by five down pillows I've collected throughout my life, one of them having been owned by my favorite maternal uncle's wife. Another I've had since Guam. One of the pillow cases I use was one my father used when he was bedridden before his death. The entire production of my bed is deliberate, warm and wraps me in family when I sleep.
    My mother knows all this but most of the information she phased out long ago. So, I assured her that my bed is, indeed, the ultimate in comfort. I recited the history of my bedding. Then, although I would have loved to have let her sleep in it, I denied her request.
    "Mom," I said, with regret hanging off each syllable of what I said," I'd love to let you sleep there. I won't be using it for a nap. But if you lay down at floor level, even though under duress we've seen that I can pick you up off the floor, that's always been a hard floor. I'm not sure I could do it with you in a prone position and a squishy bed underneath my feet. I certainly wouldn't want to pay paramedics just to get you up after your nap."
    I had another concern that I didn't voice: I don't want my bedding soaked with urine that I'd have to try to get out, leaving me without my essential bed this evening. I could protect the feather bed with a plastic sheet (which steal some of it's fundamental comfort from my mother's napping experience) but we haven't the utilities to protect everything else.
    I probably should have felt miserly and selfish by refusing her, but I didn't. I did, however, suggest that we purchase a single feather bed for her mattress. I also reminded her that she sleeps with down comforters (which are much defeathered from constant washing but still serviceable) and a superior down pillow, so her bed comfort is fairly close to mine.
    She sighed. "I know," she said, "but you're bed looks like a nest."
    I laughed. "It is a nest, Mom, my ultimate nest. I got my love of sleep from you, remember. A bed nest is important to people like us. With an addition here and there, we can make yours into your ultimate nest, too."
    She laughed. "Bless you child," she said.

    One last curious episode today: Within the year or so (maybe a bit less) I've noticed that when I am gone from the room she's in (while she's awake) and sometimes when I'm out of eye-shot of her she begins to look for me. Thus, I try to cross her line of vision frequently if I'm moving around and if I'm not I make sure I am at least in her peripheral vision within the room she's in.
    Tonight, dinner preparations occupied me for almost 45 minutes in the kitchen while Mom watched television in the living room. I tried to pop in and out of the living room frequently but this didn't always work. When I finally slipped our dinner concoction into the oven and headed back into the living room, Mom met me on the steps heading into the kitchen to look for...well, that's the mystery.
    As soon as she saw me and registered my physical detail she said, "Where's G..."
    I think she stumbled over the "G" because, although it was a little late in coming, she figured out that I was who she was looking for.
    Later, though, while we were eating dinner side by side in the living room and discussing that we would probably finish "the book" tonight, she suddenly looked at me squarely and said, "When is..." she couldn't find the name but she gamely continued, "...oh, you know who I mean, when is she getting home?"
    On a hunch I said, "You mean Gail?"
    Everything about her told me she was going to say, "Yes", but then she paused, looked me in the eye and said, "No, you're Gail."
    "You mean MPS?"
    "No..."
    "MCS?"
    "No..."
    "MFS?"
    "That's not it, either..."
    "Dad?"
    At this she gave me that "Oh, come on!" look.
    "Well, Mom, I give up. You and The Little Girl and I are the only ones who live here."
    "I suppose you're right..."
    Which means, "I'm sure you're wrong..."
    We dropped it, but then I suddenly remembered a bit of conversation from earlier today when we were bathing her. I don't remember what we were talking about but at a certain point I jokingly said to her, "...and you're my mother."
    At which she replied, not jokingly but as though she was reciting a long remembered phrase, "...and you're my mother."
    I didn't catch it or question it at the time. Didn't even think about it. But, after the two almost-relationship-phasing incidents later today it occurred to me that, perhaps, most of the time now, I am her mother. Not her mother from long ago, but her mother now.
    Weird. And cool. I guess sometimes ultra-identification happens within Ancient Ones so smoothly that it goes unrecognized for long periods of time. It won't change anything between us, since my guess is my current identity is an established reality with her, now. It's just nice for me to know. It explains things.

    Early, early morning. Time for bed.
    Later.