I hate to keep Mom cooped up in these subzero temperatures, but she does not fare well in cold weather. 40-degree weather brings forth exaggerated shivering and exclamations about how she's freeeeeeezing. She hunches her back and hunkers down like she's battling 100 mph winds, in a 30-foot scoot from the car to the front door of El Toro.
It's been 50-degrees colder than 40-degree weather, and I've been alleviating her cabin fever with an extra hour of my company—woot! I warn her ahead of time: "we're not going anywhere because it's very very cold." She responds "Well, it's nice and warm over here; the sun's out!" "Sun" automatically translates to "warm" to Mom, as does a cloud—a lone cloud in the midst of a blue sky prompts her to predict rain.
After a week, though, I gave in and decided to get Mom out of the house for lunch, meeting up with the familia at our favorite restaurant.
Taking Mom for lunch in inclement weather means arriving to her house at least 40 minutes early. Slippers have to be replaced with boots. She will sit with her feet solidly placed on the floor, and when you ask her to "lift your foot," lean back, or you're likely to get it right in the teeth.
Once her boots are on, she'll walk around complaining about her toe, her toe hurts, this boot is killing her toe. Ask her, then, "doesn't your toe hurt all the time?"* and she'll say "yes it does, and this boot feels pretty good, actually."
Time for the coat. The first arm slides in easily, but the second requires a bit of tackling. she throws her hand all around, pushing it up into the sky, and down. When you hit the brakes, and say "give me your arm, Mom," she put her hand right in your face. "Here!"
Next up: Mittens! Jazz-hands are offered, fingers extended so that no mitten will slide on. Asking her to close her fingers results in making a fist, and still no mitten can be placed. After the first mitten goes on, she pretends it's a puppet, and says "hello, how are you?" and laughs her head off, while you're tackling #2.
Topping her off: The hat! Tug it down over her head, in the interim shoving her hair into her face, which she hates, and pushing her glasses down on her nose, and she can't see.
I adjusted hairs and glasses on Sunday, and asked her, "There, can you see now?"
"You sound like a cat. Now. Nowwwww. Me-oooowwww."
Again she thinks she's hilarious, which she is. She's also, by now, ready to go.
And we trundle out for lunch, where she'll order a salad with grilled
*We don't ignore the toe problem all of the time; The toe is under doctor's care. The toe is getting better.
