Buttons are a bitch

 For three months...I have been fighting EVERYTHING. Nursing homes. My dad's unwillingness to eat. Opinions (Turns out, everyone has one...or two...or three...). Covid restrictions and protocols. My mom's dementia. Fate. Time. And...buttons. Buttons are KILLING me.

ATTENTION, would-be inventors:  Want to make millions? Design a universal television remote with only THREE buttons. Power switch. Channel up/down. Volume up/down. You are letting the duct-tape people OWN you, my friends. Walk through any nursing home or assisted living community and you will find hundreds of remotes strategically covered by duct-tape to reveal only THREE buttons. 

Buttons are kicking my ass. My mom's elusive memory enjoys playing games with me. I spent hours trying to teach her how to use speed dial as punching all the buttons to call my dad would often result in a fun chat with a remote village in Zambia. Speed dial. Two buttons. Count them. Two. But we couldn't master the skill. Until...

Imagine my delighted surprise when my mom's number flashed on my phone as I worked late on a Thursday evening. The delighted surprise quickly turned to shock as I found myself on the receiving end of my "mother's" rage. I have finally come to terms that, during these episodes, I am not actually dealing with my mother. As she spat swear words, accusations, and blame at me, I sank to the floor of my classroom and thought, Now you remember how to use speed dial? I glanced at the clock. "Mom," I interrupted, "Isn't Wheel of Fortune on?" Little did Pat Sajak and Vanna realize how much I had come to rely on them. "This %$^&*$-ing TV isn't any good," the demon possessing my mother informed me. I gently explained that I was going to hang up to rectify this matter and she not-so-gently offered her opinion about my plan. I hung up anyway and alerted her front desk who were well-versed in emergency remote control calls.

Buttons.

The TV even spiraled out of control during my stay with her. My sister-in-law has a doctorate in remote control comprehension but even she was powerless to help us. I swallowed my dignity and asked the staff to help us but they didn't have the remotest idea how to fix our problem. I sighed. It was either puppet shows or the Chrome Book. I am noticing, lately, that blessings turn up in the most unlikely of places. I plunked my mother in front of my miniature monitor and went to YouTube.  We enjoyed a few Wheel of Fortune segments as well as a few rounds of Family Feud. God bless Steve Harvey who can make my mother smile when I can't. Remembering my mother's fondness of music, I brought up Elsa belting out "Let It Go," a sentiment my mother immediately adopted. "Why is she screeching?" Mom frowned, squinting at my small screen. Okay. We watched Shirley Temple tap. Ginger Rogers waltz. And then...the epicenter...Elvis. My mother happily watched The King in his prime for over an hour.  It was pure bliss.

One of my mother's few remaining pleasures is drinking her tea. There is a soothing, elegant ritual involved in tea that us coffee drinkers will never comprehend. It is a dignified past-time. But now the buttons on the microwave baffle my poor mother. And my placing explanatory postie-notes on it infuriates her. She, understandably, hates being treated like a child. But I hate that my mom can't enjoy her tea. The war was on.

Buttons.

This battle, mothers versus daughters, has been fought since the inception of time...a time that is eternally blinking inaccurately; no doubt because of a recent power outage.  My own children, seeking to improve the lives of their parents ("improving"), decided to upgrade my own microwave, affectionally named "Old Sparky," this past Christmas. Brad and I were perplexed. We love our microwave. It has been with us, almost from the beginning. Sure, it occasionally puts on an impressive and somewhat alarming laser light show but that is part of its charm. When our cave-people ancestors ventured from their lairs for sustenance, wasn't there an element of danger to their quest? What is reward without a bit of risk?

Savannah and Sydney were quite displeased to discover their gift being used, in its original packaging, as a handy side table in my dining room when they arrived last week-end. "Christmas was almost three months ago," my disgruntled daughters announced, digging out the new microwave and callously re-packaging our tried-and-true kitchen companion. "It's so clean," I complained. "The time display is blinding," Brad observed, shielding his eyes. "Oh my goodness, does the interior light up?" I yelled, "Shadows shield the splatters!"

Ignoring our lack of gratitude, my daughters stepped back to survey this "improvement" to my kitchen while I stomped off muttering, "Those girls know how to push my..."

Buttons.