The Golden Roll...I mean Rule

In our home, Saturday mornings tend to be more sacred than Sundays.  Regardless of where we are going on Sunday morning, the time is rushed. There is a calm during worship, but then the rest of the day is a marathon to finish all the weekend things and the preparation for the next week things.

Saturdays are different.  Every Friday night, Matt will look at me and say, “I think we should just sleep until we wake up tomorrow.”  And that is music to my ears.  We are constantly running from one thing to another.  Sleeping in is a luxury.

When we do get up, there is a sacred breakfast ritual.  Matt will fix us our weekend Nespresso “fancy” coffee with freshly frothed cream, while I start breakfast preparations.  He hands me my coffee in my favorite mug, a gift from my best friend.  And he takes his favorite New Orleans mug, a gift from his sister, and heads to the computer room to start addressing the 57 things in his head. 

Except he typically gets sidetracked before really getting started because he needs to pick just the right music to listen to while he works.  And that takes him on a meandering path of coffee sipping and rabbit chasing relaxation.

Meanwhile, I cook breakfast.  It is my favorite meal to cook in the whole week.  There isn’t the usual pressure of homework and time.  And it is a meal when we don’t count points or calories.  Also, I love breakfast.  I make pancakes and syrup from scratch.  French toast heavy on the cinnamon-y batter.  Cheesy eggs.  And thick, crispy bacon.  No turkey bacon allowed on Saturday morning.

Today, followed the usual routine.  Matt fixed our coffee and headed off to continue summer vacation research.  I started breakfast.  Bacon.  Eggs scrambled in the bacon yum yums.  And cinnamon rolls.

I bought several cans of cinnamon rolls for crockpot monkey bread on our camping trip over spring break, but I forgot to pack the other ingredients.  So we had a rare can of iced cinnamon roll deliciousness.

Saturday breakfast also happens at the breakfast room table and often lasts an hour or more while we talk.  Many times we plan for the weekend or upcoming activities.  But we also talk about other random things.  Vacations.  News.  Upcoming concerts in the works.  And how Matt has my permission to spend as much money as he wants to secure tickets to Phil Collins, number one on my concert bucket list.  Phil Collins is to me what Rush is to Matt.

Today, as we were finishing up our breakfast and winding down our conversation, I asked Matt if he wanted to split the last cinnamon roll.  I’d been eyeing it the last ten minutes.  One section of this roll was just a touch more toasted.  And without icing, you could see it would be a little crunchier than the surrounding iced, soft yumminess.

Matt agreed that we should split it, so I reached over and turned the pan in order to slice through the crunchy spot so we’d both have part of the extra good section.  I’d been planning this, as I’d been eyeing it, to make sure neither of us got all the crunchy spot.  Unfortunately, my fork cutting wasn’t awesome, and one piece was still crunchier.

Just as I was reaching in to get the best piece to serve to Matt, he swooped in and grabbed the crunchy piece for himself.  I said, “Hey, I was getting that piece.”

He said, “I know.  But I beat you to it.  You can have the good one.”

As we finished our breakfast, I sat there thinking about how good it is to be in a relationship where both people try to think of the other person first.  At the same time I was planning to serve him the extra gooey goodness, he was thinking about how to turn the tables.  And he did.

It’s just kindness.  The golden rule.  Putting someone else’s needs first.  Not that either of us “needed” any more cinnamon roll goodness.

Having been a part of a failed marriage, I’ve had ample opportunity to examine what works and what doesn’t in a relationship.  And while there are a variety of really big things that lead to the end in my first marriage, the underlying ingredient that sets my current relationship apart is kindness.

But not just kindness.  More like a kindness partnership.  It isn’t just my goal to be kind; it’s Matt’s goal too.  It flows both ways. 

I think the golden rule is like a super power.  When partners are both treating the other the way they want to be treated, it creates this circuit of kindness that just keeps growing as it flows back and forth.

And that’s critical because “hangry”…is a real thing.  And so is pumpkin time; it starts at about 9:00 pm for me.

But having this arc of kindness that is constantly flowing and growing between two people makes hangry and pumpkin and cranky--manageable. Survivable.  Thrivable.

I realize that some people would say that Matt and I are still in the honeymoon phase.  But to be perfectly frank, that’s some BS.  In a blended family, there are some complications and nightmares that make the learning, growing, stretching, and struggling much more intense.  And if you don’t believe me, you should spend some time really getting to know a family like mine.

There is rarely a week that goes by that doesn’t include some trauma from our baggage or the blended family predicament.  It is kindness, every single time, that gets us through.

I am not kind all the time.  Definitely not.  I am frequently cranky, hangry or pumpkin.  But kindness is my goal.

And I’m convinced that in the relationships of those around me that I admire, the people who seem to still really like each other after 15, 20 or more years, there must be an undercurrent of kindness and rushing in to take the crunchy piece.

In the very best of circumstances, relationships are hard work.  Daily work.  Moment by moment work.  My advice?  Share the last roll.  And sometimes, trick your partner into taking the best part.

Mending

A few months back I did some sewing for Isabelle. Nothing too complicated. I took in a couple of dresses along the side seams. Isabelle is thin and dresses that are the right length are often too big around. I wasn’t sure how well it would work on these particular dresses, one had an overlay, but both turned out great.

This isn’t the first time I’ve mended for Isabelle, but it is the first time her mom sent over something for me to work on. Apparently Isabelle told her I could fix it. And I was happy to give it a shot.

Before I got started I turned both dresses inside out and had Isabelle put them on so I could pin them along the seam where I wanted to sew. I put several pins, pointy side out, in my mouth to hold them while I slowly started pinning along the seam.

And I was instantly taken back.

I cannot tell you how many times I stood just like Isabelle was standing, arms up, looking down watching my mom with pins in her mouth, as she pinned beside a seam. The way she would guide me in a turn as she finished around the length of a hem. The way she mumbled directions to me around the pins poking out from her lips.

I do not have the sewing skills my mom does. But I have a sewing machine that my mom bought me years ago, and I do know my way around curtains, pillow cases, and most mending projects. I’ve been putting darts in my pants for years. My mom taught me all of that.

As I sat on the edge of the couch that day, pins in my mouth, looking up at Isabelle, I felt like a real mom. I used to imagine making curtains for a nursery. A cover for a changing table. I never got to do those things. But here I was. Sewing for my stepdaughter. And it was one of the sweetest moments of my life.

My relationship with my mom has transitioned into something very different in the last few years as her dementia has changed the person she is. She is NOT the same mom I had most of my life. She is not the rock solid, “I can do anything”, go to person that she was for most of my life. Her memory comes and goes. Mostly goes. She isn’t terribly reasonable. And I think she spends much of the time feeling a little afraid. I think it scares her when she can’t remember things she’s always known. How to do things she’s always done.

For a while our daily conversations got pretty unpleasant. She seemed angry all the time. That isn’t my mom.

The day after I fixed Isabelle’s dresses I called my mom and took a new approach. I didn’t ask her any questions. I didn’t ask her about her day or what she’d eaten or whether she had taken her medicine. Instead, I just told her my sewing story.

I described in detail how I’d fixed Isabelle’s dresses. She was so proud of me. She had no idea that I knew how to sew. Didn’t remember that she had bought my sewing machine. So I told her all about it. And then I told her about some of the projects she made for me growing up.

I reminded her of when she taught me to make some skirts while I was in college. We didn’t have much money for clothes when I began student teaching. So we bought a pattern for a skirt. And she watched over me while I made several variations of that skirt in different fabrics. It was a bargain.

This spring break as we get ready to go camping, our little camper has needed some repairs. I started camping with Mom and John in this camper in high school. A few years ago, after Matt and I had borrowed it a few times, she gave it to us. It is far from fancy, but the price was right.

Every time we take it out we make some adjustments. Alterations. Upgrades. This week I decided to tackle some tears in the vinyl.

I pulled out a needle and some upholstery thread and got to work. It took me about ten minutes to realize that I didn’t have the right tools. The needle I was using was tearing up my fingers and I couldn’t maneuver it easily in the space. I realized I needed an upholstery needle.

I have never owned an upholstery needle. I had a vague idea of what one looked like. But I’d never used one. But sometime long ago Mom and I had conversations about repairing seat covers and furniture. She’d described the unique shape of and use for an upholstery needle. So I went and bought one.

Today, armed with my new curved needle, I fixed the pulls along some seams in the camper. The stitching isn’t beautiful. But it is functional. Rain and bugs won’t be entering through those spots in the camper. But more importantly, the seams won’t get worse.

I called my mom while I was working. Described what I was doing. The shape of the needle. She couldn’t remember exactly what they looked like. Didn’t remember ever using one. But she sure enjoyed hearing about my project.

The hardest part of dementia is mourning a person who is still here. But also gone.

I don’t talk to Mom about the master schedule anymore. I don’t talk to her about school too much at all. She gets frustrated with her own lack of understanding about things she knows she should know. I miss that camaraderie based on our shared love of education.

I miss my mom. Who she was. Even as I adjust to our new relationship. And stop to appreciate the sweet moments we still have. I miss her.

But I’m blessed by her legacy.