Like a bee in a hive I often hide the honey in our house.
Not a hard thing, moving it’s location to any other cupboard will render it invisible.
Why do this? Dad pours it for Mum like he does for himself. Thick as grandmother lavished icing on a baked cake. Thick like those melted chocolate commercials, slow and treacley and a treat just to watch it pour.
Which would be great if she liked it in her coffee or tea.
She doesn’t.
And it would be all right if she wasn’t diabetic.
She has been for about 30 years. Handling sugars and cholesterol so negligently the diabetes was probably the reason behind her strokes.
So why would someone who is evidently trying to care for someone pay so little attention to what is good for that someone? Why not aim for what makes her healthy or comfortable, or both?
And why, when it’s warmer in the lounge room does he come in and turn the TV to watch his selection of interminable news or rant programs (like that paragon of righteousness Dr Phil, his show now gone all Jerry Springer). Does he not see Mum get up and trundle off “to bed”, coming out not long afterwards to see if there is something else on?
Does he not get that she sees right through his “cheer her up” bonhomie when its so patronizingly faked?
When I first started caring for them and living together this sort of thing used to really get up my nose. Someone SO self oriented, I thought, they don’t get why others don’t enjoy the things they do. Their taste in things not opinions but judgmental conclusions….white bread is “proper” bread, all others not worth even consideration let alone trying. (Yea white makeup was proper and normal once too. And just as eventually deadly, think I).
Personally, I grew up with a bitter determination to be the opposite to this my-way-or-well-actually-there-is-only-my-way way.
Someone shows me babaganoush or pickled red cabbage I will not only try it, it might be my next favorite thing.
But I guess I realize that the practice of compassion or empathy requires me to understand and not judge someone’s flexibility or empathy. Not try and impose my too-adventurous standards, therefore doing the self-righteous my-way thing I’m complaining about.
So lately I practice my new ‘love and forgive’ mantra, understand and grant my Father his stage in his own journey. What he’s doing is not a bad thing, just a learning thing, something I might be able to help with, inspire change. I gently introduce the concept of asking other people what they might like, giving them a choice then enjoying their enjoyment.
Lo, as it turned out tonight he asked me if I would like some of his dates, which I normally avoid (well by normally I mean when I was 20 in some Arabic-speaking country and their whole date thing seemed to me like eating shiny poo).
Turns out, dates and fig jam are quite nice.
Or just add a splodge of honey.
Diary In The Dark 