You Can't Tell a Parent What to Do

Mom's been staying with us since last Monday, and by Saturday, Pam, Brian, and David will join us for a week. We've had a good time with Mom, and I think she's pretty comfortable at our house (she gets awful cold in the morning, though). I'm saddened by how frail she's gotten. She can really just manage to walk around the house. Steps are a big problem for her, so she hasn't yet gone downstairs. Her skin is really fragile, too, like Dad's was before he died. Gus dragged a paw across her arm this morning and rather than scratching, her skin tore--a 45 degree flap from the point of Gus' claw, about 3/4 of an inch wide. I keep giving her pep talks about how she's got to take care of herself, eat right, and do her excercises, but she smiles and nods as though I was lecturing, which I suppose I am. You can't tell a parent what to do. I could have told Dad every day to take better care of himself, to not eat so much, and I did to an extent--but it never did any good; couldn't have. We have no power to change others and very limited power to change ourselves. We're just a bunch of little yo-yos, carried by momentum.

So, I have to remember not to try to do too much on this trip with Mom. All the time I spent nagging Dad was wasted. The time that really means something to me now is the time we spent together just talking. I'm trying to maximize that with Mom.