Bedside Manners

I got to thinking late last night as I settled into bed with a Knitpicks catalog and a book that our bedside tables can tell the world our story. The loose, icky Kleenexes because you have a cold, the small stack of books that keeps growing because everything looks so good, the half-finished knitted sock complete with threatening looking double pointed needles, the child's latest handmade whateveritis, and so forth. All of these things comprise the detrius of modern living.

This is the stuff people REALLY want to snoop on, not what's under the bathroom sink in your guest bath!

My bedside table currently holds the following:

1 very dead cell phone, complete with leather case(this tells you I don't really like to always be available, and that I tend to be a private person); 1 half-finished Star Trek novel(not really very good, or I'd be done by now)--I am thinking about not finishing it, but the thought of leaving a book undone makes me nuts; The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris, because I love thought-provoking essays that are contemplative in nature, 1 dusty bobby pin from when my hair wouldn't do what it was supposed to and I was thoroughly disgusted with it; the balled up remains of a ball of Knit Picks Imagination sock yarn--and I have absolutely no idea what its doing there and I don't really care;1 almost empty bottle of hand lotion from Bath and Body(colds make your skin really dry); 1 mostly-empty can of La Croix(the cold made me thirsty); 1 tube of Burt's Bees(colds make your lips crack, especially in winter); two screwdrivers(because I had to put the inards in a lamp and one just wasn't enough!); and a seashell from a trip to the beach with my family filled with all sorts of little treasures--a sterling silver Liberty head dime, a real wheat penny, a bicentennial dollar coin I won in a writing contest in fourth grade, a shark's tooth I found on a girls' weekend at Folly Beach, and a bunch of really pretty, really tiny shells.

So. What does all this junk say about me to a snooper? Hmmm. I'm a little bit of a clutter-bug, a bit of a Luddite, I love to read, both silly trash and deeper things, I have more bad hair days than not, I'm such a voracious knitter I apparently do it in my sleep even when I'm sick and don't remember, I love sweet smelling things, I'm trying hard to be more handy than I am by nature, and I am very sentimental, and a little childish. And one more thing: I hate to dust!

The table itself? It's an antique leather-topped table with a crystal lamp. Covered with dust.

After Christmas Mess

This has been an unusual Christmas for me. Usually I am all Pollyanna...you know, yay, isn't Christmas wonderful, let's go take Christmas Eve communion, boo hoo hoo...you get the idea. Not so much this year. Organizing this holiday has begun to get to me. I am tired of being Santa to everybody. Brad and I don't get invited to a Christmas party unless we create one(say, the Sunday School class party), we don't get to sleep in(cause we're the parents!)on the day in question, and we don't even get to eat at someone else's house because of family difficulties(and that's another totally different issue). I'm just pooped. I often wonder if it's just me, or if this happens to all parents...particularly mothers. I also wonder if things were the same for my Mom. It's a shame I can't ask her.

My Mom has late-stage Alzheimer's disease, just like her mother before her, just like her mother's mother, and both of her mother's sisters. It goes without saying that I am terrified, and selfishly so. Am I next? Will I be 60 like she was? That means I have roughly 15 years of productivity left before my brains turn to scrambled eggs.

Therefore, when I drew my Mom's name for a Christmas present this year, I was clueless as to what to give her. The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova and Rhett Butler's People by Donald Mc Caig both came immediately to mind, but, oh yeah, my Mom can't read anymore. I miss talking to my Mom about what we were reading. And politics. And marriage. And babies. And recipes. And God. Mom would have known exactly what to do about Saving Jesus from the Church. She would have faced God squarely and fearlessly and told Him precisely why she didn't believe in Christ(and she didn't). Maybe I'm just a slow learner. For roughly 35 years, I had Mom as my living example of fearlessness and thought. My Mom could wield a Bible or a Ouija board with equal aplomb. She was equally conversant in Tarot and Matthew. She faced down real ghosts in her parents' house when she was a kid. She was an original. She was somethin', as good old boys would say. Without her, I feel like I am trying to ride a bike with no feet. Mom would know what to do about Christmas.

Our relationship was difficult, just as she was. She was damn cranky and opinionated. Most of my friends either hated her or feared her. There was no middle ground. And strangely, I miss her more than you can imagine.

Her favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz, so I gave Mom a Wicked Witch of the West coffee mug for Christmas. I wasn't entirely satisfied, but she at least smiled when Dad opened it for her.