Every day, sigh, every day she asks me where Josh is. Every day I tell her he's in Frankfurt, works for the Legislature, is 25, is getting married in September. She always says how much she loves him and wishes she could see him. Poor
Every day I ask Mother to not put her dentures in a tissue because the tissue sticks. Every night I ask her to put her dentures in their cup. Every day she hands them to me in a tissue, even though there is a stack of napkins right by her hand. Every morning I find her dentures somewhere in her bed wrapped in, you guessed it, a tissue.
Every mealtime, I come to Mom first to get her dentures glued back in before I bring her a meal. Every time, she says, "I guess you know the routine." Yes, Mom, for the 999th time, I know the routine. You'd think these are piddly things, but truly after 999 times, they simply do begin to wear on your nerves.
I sure wish Joe wasn't so untrustworthy with the golf cart. There are a few chores I'd like to do at the back of the field with the wagon cart. Yet, I'm scared to pieces to get it out and do them because then he'll want the key. If he has the key, he's as like to take it to town as not. At least it's not a swamp at the back of the field, and it wouldn't get stuck now. These are the temptations to set yourself up for a problem. Do the chores and then fight Joe vs. not doing the chores (or doing them the hard way) and have peace. I opt for peace.