Sunday Feb 7 2010
It has been a very hard winter so far.
We have seen enough snow and have not had too much help from
city hall in the clean up. Come to think of it, we had leaf removal just once, the rest just flew hither and yonder. There are still piles
sitting on some sidewalks. Cutting down labor, I am guessing, and rising the taxes anyway.
For me it is a hard pill to swallow as I pay two taxes, one for the county and one for the city. Not sure what the county does for me but I do know
the city charges plenty for water and garbage. You'd think that they would give us better service in the winter. If for nothing else but to avoid
accidents.
OK this is my beef for today.
Now on to something I can do something about.
I have had a few very good weeks as far as my feeling more "UP"
versus "down". Good job! I tell myself and then I blew it again
last night.
Brie asks"is dad behaving?" I answer:"yes, because Mom behaved"
Ha Ha....not a joke.
When I am calm he is , of course, calmer.
How do I keep calm 24/7 with so many "little" occurrences which drive me absolutely nuts.
Why do I care for these little events?
I do not have a clue.
For instance, when he is home, he constantly opens the refrigerator door. Looks inside for a long time and then shuts it, not 2 seconds go by when he opens it again and this time takes out the milk.
He is now drinking more than 4 gallons a week.
This ritual happens probably 10 a 20 times a night.
He finishes his glass like he never saw milk before and put it in the sink.
Goes to the fridge and starts all over again.
By bed time I have - no exaggeration- 10 or more glasses and cups of
various sizes piled up ready for the clean up.
I get FURIOUS absolutely FURIOUS.
I tell him so, he laughs, he now has that laugh like a devious person and there is nothing devious about him -but there is that laugh.
So he goes to the fridge and starts again.
I am trying to play Dr Phil (not that I care for that man) with my own conversations.
Why?Jeannot? Why? It is only milk and glasses.
I have no answers.
Is the same routine getting to me?
Perhaps but then he follows me all day from room to room and when I turn around I step on his toes, does that bother me? Not like the milk.!
Does running out of milk bother you?
Yes, very much so, but I do buy 4 gallons when I go to the store.
Sometimes I miss my usual shopping day as I depend on the girls
to come and get me. Perhaps that is it?
I don't know.
Do the dishes bother you?
Yes, and I can prevent that.
I could use gloves as my hands are covered with psoriasis and
it certainly burns in the hot soapy water. Once the hands are
hurting I am thinking "I should have used my gloves and then it is too late".
Is that the problem????
I don't know.
Doubt that a real shrink would not know either.
The routine baffles me and angers me.
In the meantime all the milk is probably keeping him alive!
Another problem with keeping on being the "good Mama"
Every night, (he never misses a night) every night for years and
years now, he stands by the bed and points a finger:"this is me, this is you" . He indicates where we sleep.
5 minutes later he will make me go to the bedroom again and there goes the routine : "this is me, this is you"
I promise that I am not lying but he does this every evening for at least
an hour with 5 minute intervals or less.
After awhile of this I am ready to push him on "his side"
I am having a very hard time with this repetition.
We have so many others, like asking about the car outside and asking about invisible visitors for ever and ever and I stay calm.
The bedroom routine just is near impossible.
I tell him: Yes, that is your side has been for 40 years.
Like he understand 40 years.
Like he knows this second that this is his side but when he turns around
that thought has already escaped and he is wondering where to sleep.
I know all that, why is my patience so damn short.
If I get excited then pretty soon he looks at me and tells me to get the hell out of the house and all calm is gone. Bad Mama.
Give me another Lexapro, please, can I mix it with brandy?
Guess not.
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