It’s just a number

OK…so there…I’ve done it.  I have now officially started “the change”.  No, not menopause but something I have dreaded even more.  Changing into my mother.

Image of mom

Mom at 97.5

My mother was not a mean, ill-tempered, crotchety old woman.  In fact, my mom was sweet, caring, and loving and I am grateful that she lived a full, vibrant life until the age of 99.5 years young (she would want me to include the .5).  I say years young and I really mean that.  But along with longevity came a little obsessiveness about everyday tasks like how we load the silverware in the dishwasher.

Nothing would set her off more than finding a fork when the spoons were or finding the spoons in the compartment she deemed was meant for the butter knife.  You always knew when one of us failed to follow through on directions because she would take them all out of the dishwasher, place them on the counter (I really mean slam) and proceed to sort them out.  The minute we heard the commotion, we automatically retreated to our rooms.

Last night as my granddaughter was loading the dishwasher after dinner, I noticed that she had put the silverware haphazardly in the silverware caddy.  Instinctively I walked over to her and began to instruct her on the proper way to load the caddy.

Forks with forks, spoons with spoon, knives with knives.  Knives to the back along with the serving spoons always.  If there are dessert spoons and forks, then they go in their individual compartments.  Never, never, mix one with another.  If you do it this way, it will make it easier for me when it comes time to put them away.

Then I saw it.

The wrinkled eyebrows, the fixed stare, the slight tilt and ever so subtle shaking of the head.  The WTH look.  The look I am becoming very familiar with these days.

The look I am now getting and not giving.

UGH!  I retreated to my room.

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