"You need to start helping out around the house, Reagan," says mom as I turn off the blender. She's in a foul mood this morning. It's Saturday and she's just started zipping through the kitchen like a merry maid on amphetamines. She's scooping up newspapers, junk mail, stray coffee cups, and miscellaneous items of clothing, tossing them right and left. And I'm trying to stay out of her way. I assumed I had the kitchen to myself, since she'd been working on her laptop in the living room.
"I do help out," I say as I pour my breakfast smoothie into a tall glass and take a nice cool sip.
"The downstairs bathroom is a nightmare." Mom grabs the can of protein powder that I just used, forces the lid on it, and shoves it in the cupboard.
"I was going to put that away," I say.
Mom throws a bunch of papers into the trash compactor, then slams it shut.
"Most of the mess is Nana's," I point out as Mom slings a dirty tennis shoe towards the laundry room. "You know she leaves her stuff all over the place. Have you seen the powder room today? I suppose I get to clean that up too? "Okay, as soon as the words are out, I wish I could reel them back in. Poor Nana. Its not really her fault and I know she's doing the best she can. Even so, Mom's been losing patience with her. She keeps saying that Nana has Alzheimer's, but so far there's been no official diagnosis. I'll admit that Nana is pretty forgetful, but isnt that how people get when they age? And Nana is eight-four. What does mom expect form her?
