There’s a new commercial that starts out something like this:
“A year ago, when Mom started searching for her words, we started searching for the care she would need.”
Are you kidding? Being a mother alone has you searching for words for the rest of your life.
Early on, I couldn’t remember the names of my own children. And I only had two, one boy, one girl. You’d think that would be easy. No, I even got their names mixed up with the cats’, past and present, and my husband. Sometimes I would even throw in the grandparents’, maternal and paternal.
I have a deal in place now with my mother and my husband that if we’re out in public and I don’t introduce them to someone, it’s because I can’t remember their name. And by “their,” I mean either the person I speak with or my mother or husband’s name. They agreed because they do the same thing.
Other relatives are not immune from my occasional lapses. I called my newborn grandson Colvin several times before his real name of Colin finally set in. Fortunately, he was way too young to know the difference. I really had no defense since we had been calling him Colin before he was born through the magic of medical technology that tells you the sex, what the baby looks like, and at what age he’ll be able to program your remote control.
Sometimes I can get a little paranoid about it. For a while, I was convinced that my nephew Trey moved to Troy, Alabama, just to confuse his Aunt Carol. I would be talking to someone, saying, “My nephew, Trey… er.. that is… Troy.. no, lives in Trey.. no, that’s not right…” People would become alarmed and start to call 911, thinking I was having a stroke. I was glad when he and his family moved to Enterprise, Alabama, just a year or two later. I couldn’t handle the strain.
Another duo I get confused are my granddaughter Chloe and my great-niece Zoe. There is absolutely no excuse for this. I don’t see Zoe as often as I do Chloe, they don’t look alike, Zoe is older than Chloe – none of that matters. Their names are alike and that’s enough to scramble my brain.
Just the other day, I called one of the cats “Twiggy.” I was stunned. Twiggy was the first cat David and I owned. That was 45 years ago! I hadn’t thought of that cat, hadn’t seen a picture of him, hadn’t talked about him, nothing that would put his name in my head and out of my mouth.
So here’s a note to my kids: Maybe you’d better start looking for help when this senior quits reaching for words.
|The Fam -- May 2008|