Today I am thinking about the word "weary."
When I tried to type the word, the first time I typed "eary." The second time, I typed "wary."
According to Merriam-Webster online, weary means:
1 : exhausted in strength, endurance, vigor, or freshness 2 : expressing or characteristic of weariness 3 : having one's patience, tolerance, or pleasure exhausted —used with of
I'd like doors number one and three, please.
Every morning, Rocky plays around in his room unless we go in and announce, "Get up, get dressed, and get out here. Now." Then he shows up at his leisure for breakfast,which generally is over, as we eat that meal between eight and nine. It isn't like he can't hear the dishes and conversation of the girls as they go about feeding themselves. The first few times, he pulled the pitiful act, telling me, "I didn't know I could eat breakfast during certain times." Phooey. Unless you see golden arches over this house, kid, you can't show up and place an order.
Then he puts the same clothes on as the previous day unless we have reminded him the night before to put his dirty clothes in the specified place for washing. When he chooses a new outfit, he most likely will need to be sent back to change something, as he will put on the first thing he grabs. This week, on a humid July morning, he showed up in a hoodie and his sister's track shorts which were in his drawer by mistake.
Another thing which is difficult is my mother's situation. The blessing about dementia is that she doesn't know how bad she is. The sad part is that she doesn't know who she is or where she is or at what point in time she's existing in her mind. Plus, with the poor care she is receiving, I do little more than show up and fix things. I pull into the nursing home parking lot, look at the building, and think, "I do not want to go in there." If I am supposed to be learning a lesson here, I have no idea what it could be.
Then there's my job. I love my job, but I don't understand the dynamics of the people who work there, nor do I care to. In my opinion, administration needs to tell these people to grow up and use the energy to get their jobs done. Plus, I hate being managed by memo. If I do something wrong, tell me in person during work hours, don't send me an email at five on a Friday evening, when I have no way of clarifying what exactly was incorrect or inappropriate.
So, I am weary. I ask my kids if they want cheese to go with their whine, and I guess I need to ask myself the same thing. Yes, please. A big chunk of Havarti on thick Italian bread, grilled to oozing perfection. I think that may be just what the doctor ordered. That, or a trip to the beach with a blender, a long extension cord, and some supplies.