Tag Archives: love

May10

“Mother” – The Heavyweight Title

Posted on May 10, 2025 by marybrat

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This week’s noon yoga class contained some different characters than what has become the norm. A

beauty near the back door, which was propped open to the spring sun, with an ebony braid as thick as a

rope; the variety of woman who might be 35 but might be 60, I couldn’t tell. A younger woman, clearly an

experienced yogi, pregnant with her first baby. The mother of two, her first son AJ born still, and her

second (and last, due to a harrowing labor and emergency hysterectomy) a 4-plus year old “wild man,”

coming back to classes after a few years’ absence. A mother/daughter duo, newish to our studio. The

rest, the handful of regulars, most with grown children. Motherhood, its joys and scars and often quiet

presence, was palpable in the room. There were no men in class on this particular day. Ladies with

no “germs.”

It is Mother’s Day week. I am a grandmother, a step-monster, an aunt, a Godmother. But I was never a

mother. Every Mother’s Day, the local grocery store gives a carnation to each woman as she checks out,

and I’ve always had to squelch the urge to argue back that I don’t deserve the flower. So much so that I

wrote an essay a decade ago, We Mother Each Other https://marybrat.com/2014/05/09/we-mother-each-

other/ to comfort that same instinct in others who feel undeserving of the Mother’s Day greetings that

come our way, intentionally or inadvertently. I get it—we do mother each other in so many ways, and

those with children like to thank the village that it takes to raise them. I’ve often reported the myriad ways

I have been mothered by women who are not my own mom, so I accept the sentiment, the card, the

carnation at the grocery store.

This year, in this era of my life, I know more mothers who have lost a child than I want to. That used to

mean miscarriage, stillbirth, infant death. Now, it also includes ladies my age and beyond who have

buried a grown or growing child. David, 37. Myles, 17. Lisa, 56, just last week. I sent her mom a Mother’s

Day card, although I’ve never met her.

That’s the point at which I must concede any claim to the title of mother. Whether by birth, adoption,

fostering, or whatever other iteration there is of choosing to have or raise a child, one succinct definition

(from Oxford Languages) of the word “mother” is a woman in relation to her child or children. In

relation, like the earth is to the sun. When one is no longer alive, the other—the Mother—is forever a

different human, just like whatever the moment was that made her a mom for the first time. Her

fundamental structure is altered. Yes, the rest of us are also changed when the birth or loss occurs, God

knows that is true for me too, but the change isn’t as comprehensive or complete. I’m reminded of the

movie Steel Magnolias and Sally Field’s character’s declaration, “I realize as a woman how lucky I am. I was

there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life and I was there when she drifted out.”

Oh, to be me…to have never had the pains, or the burdens, even the responsibilities of motherhood, but

to have been inordinately close to the joys, thanks to the mothers in my life. To have never given birth nor

pursued parenthood in any other way, but to have had my sisters and best friend place their babies,

living and deceased, willingly into my open arms. To have been allowed the privilege of close

grandparenthood from our kids who didn’t even meet me until they were in college. To have been raised

so selflessly by a mother who fought hard to have her own children, but who was technically abandoned

in a way by her divorced parents for a while. The “others” who stepped in for her and her sister, her

Polish-speaking grandparents and aunt-by-marriage, showed her just how to be a mother, in an

unconventional sense. That aunt, in fact, the one who showed such life-altering affection, became my

Godmother when I was born.

Truth is, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—have been the best mother, and I knew I could never measure up to the

unselfishness and commitment with which I’d been raised. I know no mom is perfect, but one thing is

sure, mine is selfless to an extent that I could never match. Even my sisters, whose flaws and shortcomings

I’ve spent a lifetime keeping track of (what sibling doesn’t?) impressed me beyond measure when they

became moms. They allowed me to participate in raising their children, and now they let me share the

rewards as their children become parents…and I’m awed to tears by seeing the whole thing come around

again.

Mothers hand over their bodies…some for YEARS!…maybe in pregnancy or breastfeeding, but then their

sleep, their mental

health, their privacy. Their schedule depends on everyone else’s plans and health. They give up social lives

and career opportunities and a clean car. (Well-described in the lyrics to The Mother by Brandi Carlile,

please check it out at the end of this post):

“The first things that she took from me were selfishness and sleep
She broke a thousand heirlooms I was never meant to keep
She filled my life with color, cancelled plans and trashed my car
But none of that is ever who we are”

And I took on none of that. All that I did do was show up and give love, and I’m grateful that they all let

me do it. I got to sing “Rubber Ducky” in Bert’s voice for bathtime, and to read “just one more!” bedtime

story. I got to ride sidesaddle on an MRI machine to pacify a scared toddler. I even “got” to be the

incumbent present adult when someone got her first period! I’ve chaperoned field trips (yes, I behaved)

and stood, hooded, in the sopping rain at soccer practice. And yes, I knelt at the feet of the gutted

mother holding her baby who had just slipped up to Heaven. That’s how close these moms let me be to

their motherhood.

Real motherhood is a thankless, thankless job. When I’ve been afforded the usually mundane tasks of

pouring the milk into a sippy cup, filling the bath with more bubbles than necessary, ordering the ice

cream, pitching the baseball yet again, even wiping up the vomit…I get thanked. When I’ve shown up at

recitals or sporting events, I’ve done so on a good night’s sleep and had time to put my makeup on.

Real motherhood deserves a Mother’s Day. The pause in time, not just for the dads and kids to make

their fair-to-middling attempts to acknowledge, thank, and appreciate you moms…but for YOU to pause.

For YOU to acknowledge that you have abdicated your very life in favor of your children. Willingly.

Lovingly. Imperfectly.

Mothers, YOU change the world. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Oh, and happy Mother’s Day. It may

not be spent exactly the way you’d like, but I have a feeling you’ll bear it just the way you do

everything else…full of grace.

Jun18

The Best Worst Hour

Posted on June 18, 2023 by marybrat

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(2012?)

The best, worst hour of every day is the hour (or two, but that just doesn’t sound as catchy, now does it?) that I visit my dad, especially now. Initially, it was many hours at a time, unless it was a hospital behavior ward which limited the visits to one or two hours. But back in those days, whether it was one hour or several, things were more “worst” than “best” for sure. There was nothing to be grateful for at that time, other than the fact that my dad was safe. It was too soon to smile about memories and be grateful for all that he had been. We were still in the thick of it, losing him while he fought us and was angry with us for letting him be sick. I don’t know when he let go, I don’t know when he knew how much and what was drug-induced and what wasn’t.

My mom still has a telephone message on her voicemail from him from three months in, around September, when he was maybe in one of the hospitals or else early on at Manor Care North Olmsted. She played it for me yesterday, and in it he sounded so sweet. He asked how she was feeling, noting that he hadn’t been feeling great, and that he didn’t have his phone (he would ask the nurse’s station to call my mom for him in the early days) but that she should try to get ahold of him whenever she could. It’s a mystery to me when he might have left this, because she was simply there almost all of the time. I had a message saved on my voicemail too, from October. I received it while Jeff and Mom and I were in Florida, packing up their now sold retirement home – another emotional story for a different chapter. In the message to me, he was agitated because he somehow had the idea (he would wake up with these ideas, probably from dreams but then didn’t make the distinction between dream and reality – either that or he just flat out hallucinated it) that my mom was angry with him, accusing him of seeing another woman. He wanted to impress upon me that of course that was absolutely not true, there was no other woman, and would I please convince her of that? When I switched from a Blackberry to my IPhone, I was told the message could not be saved. I was initially very upset, but I know that it already wasn’t my dad, and while I would love to have his voice with me always, it really IS in my head. I’m sure I won’t always be able to hear it, but that’s the nature of things.

It is so hard to describe his early illness and nursing home “incarceration” because he was still very much Hap, and yes fought us on things. But at the same time, his fight wasn’t convincing because while he knew who all of us were and that he was mad at us, he also thought concurrently that he was on a cruise ship or at the office. So you see, we really did have to do what we were doing, and never know who/what you’d get when you went to visit.

I’m going to go back to the past later, but for a different perspective, let’s talk about today since it is fresh in my mind. It was a completely uneventful visit, but still pertinent to the subject of “the best hour, the worst hour” of my day. Parking your car at the nursing home is never a fun thing – what’s next, you know, is to walk into a place that is familiar, too familiar, but unfamiliar as well. You don’t want it to be familiar, it’s for other people. The anxiety grips you as you walk towards the door, because you know what kind of smells are going to hit you when you enter, and that there will probably be at least one person hanging out in a wheelchair, looking like nothing you’ve ever wanted to allow into your life. Maybe they are just literally hanging there, belted in. Their head is probably lolling to one side, perhaps they are drooling. Perhaps they can say hello to you, but many times they cannot. Now that you’re “a regular,” the sight of such a person no longer disturbs you and you smile and greet them by name. That’s part of the paradox of the best/worst. It never gets less gross, disgusting, inhumane, or horrifying. Yet you embrace all of those things, and the people to whom they are happening, with compassion. You don’t notice that Bob’s hair is always greasy and never combed and that he spits when he talks. You don’t care that the food is all over the faces and down the fronts when you are in the dining room with the others. You don’t balk at seeing the top of the diaper out of someone’s pants, or people without their teeth. You stop noticing the damaged toenails of the diabetics or the nose-picking of the guy with the really long fingernails that no one ever seems to cut. They are beautiful and you come to love them for what you know they must have been once. You see your own mortality, frailty, and probable future, and you have compassion.

But before that, let’s be honest, it sucks. Today, I went at lunch time, and my dad was already seated at “his spot” in the dining room, by the window. He had been shaved, which is always a plus – because he looks like my daddy again, clean-shaven, beautiful skin. To see him look disheveled, although it is common now, is nothing like the dad I knew (unless we’re talking early morning before the shower – then that white hair was wild!). Now, though, showers are about every three days in the nursing home. That part is done by the aides, so we get to ignore or forget what exactly that process looks like. Does my dad just sit there on the shower chair? Does he participate, or let them do all of the work? Is he ever “with it” enough to be embarrassed any more? He made a comment to my mom once at the Manor, pointing out a giant FEMALE aide, and telling my mom “she gives such a good shower!” If that’s not proof my dad was ‘gone’, I don’t know what was. The man was ridiculously modest, especially around women. I can’t say that enough times or with enough emphasis. So, today, my dad was clean shaven, hair combed back, and that made him look good. He was also sitting up straight, which helps the illusion of health also; some days, he is leaning over to the left, drooling and with one arm draped over the wheelchair. He matched today, thanks to whomever took care of him. His sweatpants and sweatshirt matched or complemented each other, which is always a toss up.

You may think that we are uninvolved, that we could demand he be put in a particular outfit every day, that he doesn’t like this, doesn’t like that – but we found out fairly early on that most of those type of demands aren’t for the patient, if we’re being honest. They are for the family, so it doesn’t hurt so bad. Dad has no idea if he matches, and no one there does, either. Earlier at the Manor, if his shirt was inside out or something didn’t match well, we might mention it or try to fix it for him. All this did was to confuse my dad. It was to make US feel better, not him. Because he felt just fine with it backwards or whatever. That’s part of the learning process for us – the prettier nursing home (which couldn’t keep him locked in), the demands on what he wears and eats (which he no longer has a clue about) and things like phones and television remotes (which he loses, or adds to his hallucinations, or throws), and even the photos and calendars and mementos we have placed all around him in his room, are for US. He lives in a very particular world, and those things do not matter. In fact, they interfere.

Today, his appearance made me say “hey, good lookin’!” And I leaned over him to give him a hug. He hugged back, which he doesn’t often do, and he smiled. He seemed strong today, awake and aware. Not aware he has dementia and is in a nursing home, but more aware that it is daytime, I am sitting with him, and that he should pick up his fork and eat lunch. Other days he looks vacant, hazy, or has his eyes closed even as he mumbles as if we are speaking . Still other days he “answers” someone calling to him a few feet away, a hallucination. Some days, he needs help eating, having no idea or no desire to engage with the food, or because in his mind, he is in a different reality. He will treat his napkin like a form and his finger like a pen and begin working, despite the plate of food in his way. But today, he was pretty good. He burped, and then laughed. A return to being a baby, is how I look at it. He looked at me sheepishly, and I told him he was just cracking himself up, that all men were seventh grade boys at heart. He liked that, and he laughed and looked at me.

Nowadays, those are the days that make me cry. When my dad smiles, not a polite smile for someone else but a smile because he is chuckling at something, there is nothing in the world that is more beautiful for me to see. He was always such a good looking man, and smiling was such a part of him. When he smiles at me, with those blue eyes and beautiful face, I miss my dad. Those few times are glimpses into the happy, Happy man that he was. And happy for Happy was a deliberate choice. He was filled with natural optimism and glee, but he just refused to be anything but happy, no matter what the situation. And I love him for that, and I embrace that lesson from him, but oh, how fast the tears come, though I’m smiling through them, when he smiles at me. Then I hug him, and kiss him.

The meal is always a variable, too. Today, he was drinking okay by himself from a normal cup. I keep meaning to take a milkshake to ascertain whether or not he can still drink out of a straw, in case it comes to that. Because more and more he is having trouble with the mechanics, and the brain command to DO the mechanics, of eating and drinking. Sometimes, he forgets in mid meal after he was just doing decently. Often while drinking, once the glass is half empty (yes, yes I know Hap would say half-full) he holds it to his lips but can’t get any. I have to remind him, tip your head back, dad… and so far, that helps and he is able to get the rest out. As for the solids, well, it’s a mess. He probably can’t really use both hands with a knife and fork, so he uses one hand or the other and a fork or spoon to feed himself. Today, he began with his jello (that’s another thing I refuse to correct – I am gonna let that man eat dessert first!) and yes, it is messy. They usually put a giant sized bib on all the residents, which early on seemed so wrong for my dad and he often didn’t use it, but his skills have deteriorated so it IS useful – but I don’t think he is any more aware of what it is or that someone placed it on him than he knows what day today is. Since he had used his spoon with the jello, he dug in to the green beans with it next. That didn’t work as well, so I suggested the fork. But until I replaced the spoon with the fork in his hand myself, he did not make the change. And so, it is messy, but I don’t help him unless he physically will not feed himself. I figure, the longer he can do something, we should encourage him to do it, if for no other reason than to give him something to do in a long, long day of sameness. But again – that’s me talking. His day may seem full and exhausting to him, and in fact I don’t think his day is a day at all. I think he cycles in about three hour increments. There are days he is fabulous at lunch and terrible at dinner, and days that mom comes home saddened because he seemed so bad at lunch, but when I go for dinner he is a new man. Such is this disease – whatever it is.

Now that my dad is more ill, and he is safe and cared for, and my mom is doing decently and is healthy, I have the luxury of feeling like these are not the worst of times. That enables me to have the best hour of the day with my dad, too. While he may be concentrating on his green beans, I can be nostalgic and remember who he was. And while, of course, I didn’t love him enough or thank him enough when I should have, I can now sing to him, songs I know he used to like, like Donna Wells “Happiest Girl in the Whole USA” or “I Never Promised You a Rose Garden” by Lynn Anderson, or old country classics or folk songs. He liked “Green Green Grass of Home” and “Honey,” and Kenny Rogers songs. I can rub his shoulders while I talk to him, and if I have time for a real treat, I massage his arms and legs with moisturizer. Listen, I’m no saint – I put gloves on first, for his protection as well as mine. We don’t need to exchange germs and bacteria any more than we are anyway, and okay I admit it…I still get grossed out by bodies. But that is okay… because I know, no matter what level of sanity someone is at, it just feels damn good to have someone massage your arms, leg muscles, neck. I know why I love manicures and pedicures, and it’s not just because of the pretty polish.

I recently saw Amy Grant on tv, discussing caring for her elderly parents. Her mother had recently died after having dementia, and her father has it now. She was distraught that this was what the final chapter was like for two faithful servants like her parents, but she said that she was very moved by what a friend told her: this is the last great lesson your parents will teach you. Amy decided that if this was what her parents were teaching her, she damned well better be all in and learn it. While the choice is not a conscious one of my dad’s, God works in mysterious ways and I know that I am learning about myself, my husband, my family, and every individual I come across during this experience. Part of the best hour of the day is being forced to sit there and really not think of or care about anything but reflecting on my dad, on the life he gave us, on the relationship that we had… of all that he gave up, joys he experienced, how he has suffered. How much I owe to him. How unique and wonderful he is. How blessed I am that this hurts so bad, that I have nothing but good memories and that’s why this is so devastating. What a gift to be 43 and just now to have lost my dad, and what a gift to be so torn up about it. Some people don’t talk to their parents. Some people live far away from them. Some people are always fighting. I am devastated to lose my dad this particular way, but I am so blessed and grateful that it IS this painful, simply because of what that says about all that came before. Sometimes I wonder if my dad’s prayers are being answered. If he prayed his whole life for my mom to be healthy and live a long life, for his children to be healthy and prosperous, and for God to give him the suffering instead. I would not doubt it.

I know that the angels who take care of my dad (well first of all, I do know that they are not all, and not always, angels) do not know him at all. They don’t know that he was much more fun, kinder, more generous and loving than the person they take care of in the bed next to his or the room across the hall. All I’ve got is our example to show these people how remarkable he was. Do I love that every single nursing home and hospital so far has brought us people who sought us out, saying things like “wow, you girls and your mom sure do love your dad!” Hell yes. I’m proud that people notice, and I am sure that is part of my sisters’ motivation too. Not as in we want people to see us visiting so we get ‘credit’ – no, not that at all. Rather, it is what he truly deserves, and he also deserves to have people see it and know it – THIS is what love looks like when you have been such a wonderful father. Learn from him, people. This is a man we will never leave, never forget, never cease to thank and love and blanket with affection to show the world how special and superior he was. Everyone thinks this of their loved one, or most, I am sure. But, sorry – we are here to show you different, more. Hap Harral was in a league of his own.

Apr2

Touch.

Posted on April 2, 2020 by marybrat

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When a baby is born and you pass her around, you wonder what she is thinking as she lies in your arms. Living in another state from our grandchildren, we spent the newborn visits hogging the first baby, trying to absorb her and letting her absorb us…hearing our voices, feeling our sway, sensing our scents. On her tummy, and eventually on her back, once she was stronger, her dinosaur bones, I would slowly spell out the letters of her lengthy name with my index finger. “K…e…n…n…e…d…y…”and finish with a big tickle up the neck, “KENNEDY!”

I could soon enough see that she came to expect it from me. Which was, of course, the point.
Eventually the child could walk and talk…funny how that happens, and quickly…and her mama turned the spelling of her name into a rhyme, “K-e-n-n-e-d-y, that’s my name, I’m sweet as pie!”
And, as kids will do with every parent’s perfect plan, Kennedy twisted that rhyme into her own ridiculous singsong, apropos of nothing, “K-e-n-n-e-d-y, that’s my name, football pie!” Then the laughter, the glee.

I’m sure I did the same thing thirty years ago on the back of the baby girl who named me Mamie, albeit with a much shorter name, K-a-t-i-e. I have done it using the few letters in Noah. “Again, Mamie!” The unique arrangement of letters in Loftyn. I have barely begun to do it on the quickly broadening back of Jackson, whom we haven’t seen since late December, as he grows and forgets while we all quarantine in our respective states. I may have done it only once to the new Myles.

My calendar tells me it’s almost time for what would have been my monthly hair color appointment at my friend Mary’s salon, and I remember a wonderful woman who retired from there named Penny, whose gentle, capable hands at the shampoo bowl reminded clients of a loving grandmother. Penny always made sure there were no suds in your ears and that the water was never cold.

Beyond even that date will come Easter, when sometimes my sisters and I would crash our hard-boiled eggs into each other, “egg fight!” Someone wins, someone loses, but then everyone wins because two of us like yolks, while one of us likes only the whites. It is often a holiday that my brother-in-law has had to miss because of work, likewise his son, the chef, cooking for families who prefer a restaurant for their fancy ham, maybe pork belly and farm-to-table eggs.
My mind wanders to their other son, all six foot four of him…did he let me draw his name on his back for comfort as I “rode” the MRI machine with him as a toddler? He’s married now, and his wife gives the longest, most heartfelt hugs of anyone I have ever known.

Just outside both my back and front doors, birds are building nests. Spring is dawning, which would usually be yet another excuse for a pedicure with my mom. Last time we went together, before her winter vacation in Florida, the young women massaging our calves with lavender sugar scrub were discussing an Instagram post in which some unknown harlot tagged our girl’s boyfriend. Should she text him? Ask him to explain? Or become Nancy Drew first and confront him with evidence?

As the weather warms, I yearn to climb onto my stand-up paddleboard, hibernating in the basement, and to lunch with my friend afterwards. And to reach my fork to sample from her plate, or share some fries, maybe a sip of each other’s beer.

Zoom and Facetime prevent the grandkids from forgetting our faces, as does an old-fashioned letter written to help bridge the chasm. Distance isn’t the problem; my best friend and her husband drive across town to stand six feet from their grandsons. My sister does the same to see the babies she moved residences this past year just to be closer to. Her daughter had ice cream delivered. Proximity is not the problem.

Today, the sun shines and more than 50 degrees Fahrenheit are promised, so I will take my mom for a ride in the car since we’ve been shuttered at home together-ish. Side by side. Last week when we did the joyride, we stopped in the driveway of her best friend who came outside to chat from a distance, bundled in an over-sized Cleveland Indians jacket. The boys of summer, benched for now. If we do the same visit again this week, we may have to call that our Easter since it is a holiday usually shared with her family…our family.

Months ago, as regular flu season kicked up, I stopped ending my yoga classes by giving everyone a gentle neck massage. Some folks say that’s their favorite part of class. Others, like my friend Joolz, only tolerates it. She doesn’t want to reject my touch, but she is one who has trouble relaxing, finding peace at the end of practice. Which makes her appearance there even more valuable to me.

Mass on Sunday is on TV for now, and while I may have balked at the exchange of so many handshakes at St. Bridget’s and often surreptitiously squeezed sanitizer into my hand and my husband’s (or once, the open handbag of the woman in the pew in front of us!) I do miss the waves, winks, and thumbs-up of those friends, each of us easy to find in the same pew week after week. The big ones and the little ones. Some of us grabbing breakfast afterwards. I miss the Eucharist. It is called Communion.

My original yoga guru ends class by saying “unity in diversity; all are one.” I miss meeting her for coffee after class. I miss the group of faces I would see at noon on a Wednesday, and even more the several with whom I shared tiaras and mimosas one year ago today for a 50th birthday celebration. Thanks, Timehop.

Before this all happened, we had Thanksgiving and an 80th birthday party for our mom. We had a Christmas with the kids. Before this happened, we rang in the new year on a mountaintop from a hot tub while fireworks exploded in the valley below. Before this all happened, we made it to the in-laws in Florida for a golf visit. Before this happened, we had a weekend in Quebec with our friends. Before this happened, we celebrated our bestie Ken’s birthday.

Before this happened. And now this has happened. And everything from this point on will be “after.”

I just miss touch.

(Photo from Mother’s Day 2019)

Jan8

Hap, Hap, Happy.

Posted on January 8, 2013 by marybrat

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Today, when I visited my dad (Hap) in his nursing home, I had a bit of an epiphany. For the longest time it was just torture to visit him in such a place, but now while it still makes me cry as I am leaving, it is a more bittersweet feeling and today I think I realized why. Now that he is more “gone,” when he does have a good day (as he did yesterday, a good day being one in which he is sitting upright, his eyes are open, he is speaking intelligibly) I cannot help but smile to see his laugh, his sparkling blue eyes, catch just a glimpse of the man who used to be in there. More specifically, as I delighted in a few of his actions and comments, I realized that the sweet half of the bittersweet is that I now get to see my dad as if he were a toddler. What he does and how I react to it reminds me of how it was to be with the kids as they were first experiencing the world. When a child hears some background conversation not meant for him at all, and then supplies a completely apt response, we as adults laugh and clap and his cleverness. So it is with Hap. When a child gets a particularly bulky forkful of food to his mouth successfully, if laboriously, and then his face clearly shows his triumph, we delight in his accomplishment. So it is with Hap. I could see things dawning on him, or see him coming back to things and slowly registering what they meant – “oh, that’s the spoon…I’m going to try THAT for the fruit instead of the fork.” In children, we watch in rapt appreciation, knowing that the world is opening up for them, that they will learn each of these things one at a time and become smarter, stronger, faster, lose their childlike wonder and amazement. For my dad, he will instead learn and re-learn, but then hang on to less… the world is instead closing up for him. But to see the man whom I only knew as omniscient, omnipotent, full of strength and wit and wisdom as if he were the child-Hap I never knew is still a beautiful opportunity to appreciate his frailty, the frailty which we all share as human beings. Before he was my dad, man of the house, ruler of our little kingdom, he was a tiny, helpless child, an athletic, stocky, stubborn, willful little boy-sponge soaking up all that life had to show him. And, lucky for all of us who knew him in adulthood, he really did soak it all in and celebrate it. So, I celebrate this time with him now, too. He has the attention span of an 18-month old, but that was cute on the kids and so it’s cute on him, too. He wears it well, because even though he spills food on his front and becomes frustrated like those children did, he also erupts into a chuckle when he thinks of something that he thinks is clever. Often he will say something nonsensical, although now it is interspersed with the familiar adult Hap-speak. His first comment to me yesterday was, “typical Florida real estate!” and then he went on to reasonably explain some transaction that he thought went wrong. In the next breath he mentioned the Carolinas, another favorite place of his, and then he pointed to the empty space in front of us and said, “didja see that guy? He almost kicked him in the nose!” and he smiled and shook his head. So, it looked like my smiling, joking daddy, but it was a child as well. That brings tears to my eyes, but they aren’t tears of agony anymore, they are tears of bittersweet joy. It’s bitter, yes, but it is so sweet to see him as this child. I snapped a photo of him with my iPhone and said, “I’m just gonna send this to mom…” he shook his head and chuckled, and said (in a typical Hap move, mocking in his tone, embodying his old philosophy of “old age and treachery will overcome youth and skill”) “wouldn’t it just be easier to take it down the hall and show her?” That comforted me, because it made me feel (right or wrong, I’ll take it) as if when we are not in the room with him, he still feels like we all still live together in this “home” and when we visit, it’s as if we just came into the room again. The television was on in the lunch room with the other residents, and “The Young and Restless” was playing. He thought soaps were ridiculous, of course. I said, referring to his next door neighbor of 45 years, “one of Eleanor’s stories is on.” He said, “I find them interesting.” If that’s not proof that he has lost his mind, I don’t know what is! Of course, I don’t believe he watches the soap, he barely glanced at it – and as I said, his attention span is no longer there for an entire storyline (even one that hasn’t changed in 25 years.) But what’s miraculous is that for a second, my real dad is there, choosing to be/speak/think positively about whatever subject is brought up. Later, in the hallway, his roommate Ed was trying to give us candy. Ed will take his dollar bills to the vending machine and buy gum and candy, walk around with it displayed on the table/seat of his walker, and try to share it. He’s very sweet. He leaves his money sitting there too, though, so it looks as if he is a walking candy counter. As he passed, and I declined his offer of chocolate, my dad reached toward him to get his attention, and out of the side of his mouth asked, “hey, do they sell cigarettes there?” My dad hasn’t smoked in 25 years, but he always said he missed it, and it is so very like his cocky, childish side to try and score smokes. How can that not be funny, sweet, and appreciated by me? Yeah, it sucks to see my brilliant dad this way. He is too young and strong and had way too much more to give to his grandchildren. No doubt about that. But now that I’ve realized how rare and beautiful this glimpse of Hap as a rambunctious child can be, I will drink in the bittersweet and be glad for every last minute of these visits, the worst best hour of my day.