The Night Shift

The great news is that Mom is doing amazingly well. She has pleased and astonished her caregivers, first at Duke, and finally at home. In fact, one of her at-home therapists said she was one of his top 92-93 year old patients. Mom looks good, in the pink of health. It's harder for her to walk, she needs some help in, ah, private matters, and is more house-bound but otherwise her QOL is good, she reads, watches TV, enjoys socializing and is eating better than she has in several years.

In the meantime,I have abandoned my own bed, complete with husband and happily snoring pugs to be near mom in the night. I am grateful to have a new twin bed complete with new bedding and pillows, at the foot of mom's bed in her snug room. Mom needs help in the night and better I be there in person that try to listen over the baby monitor or relentlessly check our Nest camera.

But I'm pretty tired. All the time. Reflect if you will on the sleepless nights after you had kids. Now add 30 years.

Here's our night last night.

7:00 pm Mom wants to go to sleep. I help her change into her nightgown, we pray together and I tuck her in.

7:15 pm  Head to den to start bookclub book.

7:16 pm  Attempt to bring up nest camera feed so I can watch mom. Phone is flashing error messages about bluetooth which essentially makes my Android phone useless.   I reboot. I reboot again. I give up and bring up the Nest Camera on my laptop, perching it beside me on the couch. Mom is sleeping well.

7:18 pm  Begin to read.

7:25 pm  Earle takes out the dogs when he opens the front door, a small wren is perched on the wreath and she flutters into our house.

7:26 pm Armed with brooms, we dash about the house, searching for the wren, shutting doors, and turning out lights.

7:36 pm  Bird has been flushed towards the door but is on the top of the chandelier in the foyer.

7:37 pm Earle extends a  duster and is able to redirect the wren towards the door. In the meantime, the pugs stand stupefied watching the show.

7:38 pm  SUCCESS! Bird exits via front door. Mom never wakes up.

7:39 pm  Prepare for bed: nasal rinse, steroid inhalation and salt water rinse, floss and brush, moisturizer. I realize my head takes much maintenance.

8:00 pm Get in my own bed with Earle and my pugs. Pugs demand nighty treats and I accommodate them. Attempt to bring up Nest camera on phone again and am exasperated by my inability. Earle asks to see it and temporarily gets the flashing to stop and brings up camera. After hearing me complain about bluetooth for weeks and then this flashing that started after the last system upgrade a few days ago, he is done. "Decide by tomorrow whether you want Apple or Android. My mind whirls. Which one?

8:05 pm With phone in lap displaying camera trained on mom we watch recording of Murphy Brown. I laugh uproariously.

8:30 pm  With phone in lap displaying camera trained on mom we watch recording of Will and Grace. Funny, but bittersweet.

9:00 pm   Bid my husband, dogs and bed good night. Grab extra blanket from linen closet for my bed downstairs, since I've been chilly lately.

9:05 pm   Crawl into bed in mom's room. Still thinking about phone format. Phone cooperates long enough for me to post on FB asking for android vs iphone experience. Does phone know it is helping me plan it's own demise?

9:06 pm  Text sons to get their input. Text them I am going to get them this for Christmas. Wonder why it was promoted to me on FB? https://www.amazon.com/Finger-Hands-Assorted-Color-Bulk/dp/B07BYVW74M/ref=sr_1_sc_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1542468487&sr=8-2-spe

9:15 pm Scour the internet for android vs iphone articles. Realize I need to go to sleep before mom wakes up.

9:16 pm Start reading book #3 in the Lady Sherlock series on my ipad.

9:30 pm Decide not to push my luck and stop reading. Attempt sleep.

9:45 pm Mom up, needs bathroom. Distinctly hear strange voices in den. Get burst of adrenaline. Realize it is my voice (I'm very hoarse with a cold) on my laptop. Close laptop en route to visiting the other bathroom. Door partially closed from earlier bird episode. The muted light casts my shadow on the open door. It looks like a person. Again, still spooked from before, I gasp. I check my fitbit and my heart rate is 104.

10:00 pm Back to bed. Practice deep breathing exercises to lower heart rate.

10:45 pm Mom up, needs bathroom.

10:55 pm Back to bed. Wonder whether to sit up until mom definitely asleep or go back to sleep to be awakened again. I distract myself with FB, and hear from younger son about phone ("would be my funeral")  and proposed Christmas gift ("would be satisfactory").

11:15 pm Back to sleep. Toasty under second blanket.

11: 45 pm I need the bathroom. I sit up straight in bed but with squishy mattress topper and additional blankets I pull a stomach muscle. (Yes, that's a thing.)

11:50 pm Back from bathroom. Gently edge myself into bed. Scour internet to convince myself I have not done myself permanent harm. To distract myself I imagine what will happen next in the novel I am writing for National Novel Writing Month. Satisfied, I go back to sleep.

12:15 am Mom up, needs bathroom

12:30 am Back to bed. Abdominal muscle still sore. Realize I can't remember any of the plot developments I had imagined for my book.

12:45 am Get a drink of water from my metal Tervis Tumbler, but overreach in replacing it on my small bedside table. It drops to the floor with a tremendous clatter, lid flying off and ice scattering. It wakes mom, and I use the flashlight feature of my phone to fetch a towel and mop up water and ice.

3:20 am  Mom up, needs bathroom. Meet Earle in kitchen when I come for water. The pugs were up, needed bathroom.
5:30 am Mom up, needs bathroom. I am not sure I am even awake.

7: 15 am It is light. It is morning. I am tired. Mom says cheerfully, "Well, I had a good sleep!"

7:16 am See text from older son. He tells me (facetiously) that this is the phone I should get. https://www.androidpolice.com/2018/11/15/palm-phone-review-tiny-tragedy/

7:17 am My phone starts throwing up "Bluetooth has stopped working" messages.

7:18 am I laugh. I reflect on the church sign I told a friend about yesterday. It said simply "Everything is absolutely all right."

7:18 am  And it is. Amen and Amen.

When the Rubber Hits the Road

Just this week I had a discussion with someone about how young couples with babies and toddlers think that the early  years of child rearing are the hard part of marriage. The truth is that  the later years in life present the biggest challenges. For example, when the Mother of the Bride joins the household.  And six and a half years later, she's still there.

The Mother of the Bride has had quite a six weeks. Mary Frances, with the help of the docs and nurses at Duke Medical Center, the strength of her own will, and the generosity of the Good Lord, survived a major GI bleed, completed five weeks at rehabilitation, and moved back home. Mercifully, the confusion that enshrouded her in the hospital (so-called "ICU delirium") lifted and we are blessed to have Mom's dry wit and always wise counsel once again.

Physically, though Mom is more challenged than before. She continues to work hard with the physical therapist and the occupational therapist who visit our home every couple of days. She does her exercises without complaint, including those prescribed by the speech therapist. She sallies forth, but with a good bit more hands-on help. In fact, we've installed a twin bed in her bedroom so that I can help her in the night.

Today was a red letter day. Less than a week from her return home she had an appointment for a perm. She managed getting in and out of the car like a pro, walked with her walker into the salon, and settled in for "the works." Our friend and stylist, Earl, did a marvelous job with her hair and she once again acquired her "Barbara Bush" looks. She, Earl and I were in good spirits as we headed collectively towards the door with the promise of the requisite chocolate chip cookie on the way home. (If you've not had a Hardee's chocolate chip cookie, you really should.)

But to my surprise, to Earl's surprise, and mostly significantly, to Mary Frances' surprise the back legs of her walker got tangled up in a small throw rug as she approached the door which Earl was holding open. I was at her side. Earl cried out "rug!" and I had time to glance back and see the rug tangling a millisecond before Mom started to go down. Earl  was on one side and I  was on the other  so were able to change her fall from one that was ass over teakettle to one that was a slower collapse leaving mom's legs tangled in her walker. I remember it now in  painfully slow motion, but it happened in a mere matter of seconds.

First Earl and I untangled Mom from the walker and she sat upright, inventorying her limbs. We breathed a collective sigh  of relief when she confirmed everything was intact. So now the question was "What do we do next?" Mom sat on the floor, inside the door of the salon, legs straight in front of her like a Barbie doll left by a careless child. Earl volunteered to grab Jackie (Yes, Jackie is another stylist, a male stylist, at the Salon.) Now Earl is no slouch; in fact he's a tall, strong Air Force veteran. And Jackie exudes a wiry strength. And then a guy named Scott,  a hale and hearty fellow from the business next door, poked his head in and volunteered to help.

But I would only have it one way. I called Earle. My Earle, that is, who was at work a mere two miles away. He answered  his phone softly and by that I knew he was in a meeting. "Mom's fallen at the salon. Can you come get her up"  And so he came, telling his co-workers that his mother-in-law had fallen and couldn't get up. (Which, I surmise was met with a few guffaws.)

Earl and I hovered around Mom, watching for Earle, and Jackie grabbed towels and capes to warm her up while she waited on the cold floor. Soon enough I spotted the grey Ford Fusion as it wheeled into a parking place.

Young women from time immemorial  dreamed of their  handsome knights on  beautiful white steeds, but no-one could look as good to me as my husband of 36 years, unfolding out of his simple sedan and striding over to our collective huddle around my mom. I ran next door and motioned to Scott to join us.

And then, as quickly as Mom had fallen, she was lifted,  by these four, Earle, Earl, Jackie, and Scott, this time like a rag doll ,and placed gently on her feet. And then she was escorted by entourage to the car.  Those four guys, no, those four men, looked like the best of heroes to me.

But the best of all was my Earle, who, not once, has complained about having my mother live with us, who twice now, has swept her onto her feet after a fall.  Who cooks for her and provides for her, who jokes with her and brings her the News and Observer , who pushes her in her wheelchair, and who genuinely cares for her.

 So young couples, lean in together to raise those babies, teach those children, encourage those teenagers, but wait, dear ones, wait,  for the rich warm years of middle age. Because those years, my friends, are when the rubber hits the road.

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How Low Can You Go?

Low.

That's how things are today.

Remember limbo? It's the game in which contestants compete by seeing who can bend backwards lower and lower, while passing under the limbo pole without touching it. On each consecutive turn the pole is reset and the players bend lower and lower, seeing just how low they can go. The winner, of, course, is the one passing under the bar at the lowest setting.

Except in aging, the lowest of  the low isn't the winner.

I met a man recently who shared a family story with me. His mother and grandmother were at church. His mom noticed her mother's glasses had fallen off and when she reached over to help her  mother slip them back on, she realized that her mother was not breathing.  Just like that, his grandmother had thrown off the mortal coil and was walking the streets of gold.

I'd say, she went out by touching that limbo pole on it's highest setting. There was only a tiny bit of bending required of her.

My hope was, that when mom's time came (as it will for all of us), that it would come with a minimum of bending. Not so. Today she is shimmying under a pretty low pole.

Mom's death felt imminent three weeks ago.  It IS a miracle she's alive. We, my family and my sister's family, and a few good friends, have enjoyed some beautiful time together while she mends, first at Duke, now  in Rehab. Yesterday, in fact was a great day. She walked 40 feet, relaxed and enjoyed her day. I read to her and we watched TV together and she seemed clear and strong.

But a night without sleep (as reported by the staff ) has left her in a bad way. I've seen this situation on several days since her "event" at Duke and am learning from staff, from PT, from OT, that bad days just happen. Mom seemed alert when I entered her room this morning, eating her breakfast, but we she called me "God" instead of  "Jackie", I knew we were in trouble. I've learned that when she doesn't sleep, she cries out to God. It's as if her faith is a pearl, broken free of the knotty grey oyster shell that represents the non-essential parts of who she is.

A few nights ago she prayed out to God for someone to come in her room with her. When the CNA entered, mom praised God for sending her an angel and entreated her to sit, while she went to sleep. The CNA sat.

The other thing that happens on a bad day is mom's arms and legs tremble. This is new since her hospital event too, and I have come to understand that it is due to fatigue and/or age related. (Or as mom would say caused by A-G-E.) It's tough to see and confusing to mom. "I don't know why I'm trembling?"  Thankfully, it passes generally  in a few minutes.

And then there's "her settee." Yep, my mom won't say bottom, or heinie, or buttocks, or butt, or fanny or ass. It's  always "her settee." She just can't get it comfortable. She shifts and twists and she stands and sits down again. We adjust pillows and she pushes herself up in the chair. On these days, she has no tolerance for the discomfort of her settee and no memory that she and I did the dance of trying to resettle her just 10 minutes ago. (If only my fitbit tracked the number of times I hopped out of my chair.) She desperately wants to snooze and is most comfortable sitting forward on the edge of the chair, which leaves her in danger of falling on her face.  So I wake her and we try again to find a good position.

So this Crying Out to God/Trembling/Can't Get Comfortable is for now her low limbo setting. I certainly know the bar could be set lower. I wouldn't say Mom is suffering, exactly, but as she puts it, "It's hard." On days like today, Mom is bending over backwards and barely missing the pole. I ache for her.

But God is still teaching lessons in the midst of this turmoil. Mom's faith, that brilliant pearl, shines through in the midst of her troubles. That on her journey, on days good and bad, she knows she is not alone. She knows she can cry out to  God for mercy and strength. That all her days of worship, of reading her Bible, of sharing her faith has left such a deep and abiding faith that in the midst of physical pain, confusion, and decline, she can still draw sweet water from the depth of a bottomless font to quench her thirst.

The trembling is a reminder that our bodies tire. They stumble and stall. But Mom's body, at 92, has carried Mom on a glorious journey, a life rich and full. We wouldn't expect 92 years of service out of a Chevy or even a John Deere. That her fragile, human body has given her this life is a thing to celebrate.That still it strives to carry her forward into the future is astonishing. She walks a little further each day. A step at a time.

And she can't get comfortable. Isn't that the condition of life? Is there ever a time when we truly are comfortable? Whether with our looks, our bodies, our marriage, our children, our politics, our faith, there will always be something, somewhere, that is an irritant. Something that distracts us from our  purpose. Something that makes us lose sight of who we are and where we are going. Discomfort is the catalyst to change, to make the best of our moment in an institutional recliner or to make best of our broken world.

So today mom is leaning back hard. But tonight, through the mysterious state that is sleep, her limbo bar will likely be reset. And I hoping, and I'm praying, that tomorrow is an easy limbo day with the pole set so high, so that she can slip right under it with a wink and a smile and enjoy this life on earth another day.

Reading for Content

The Bibliophile Gene is clearly inherited. To be a bibliophile is to be passionate about books, to love to read between the endsheets and between the lines. To be enchanted by the touch, the smell, the heft and size of a book.

I have the Bibliophile Gene. It came twisted in the spine of my mother's DNA. My sister has it, too. I've passed it down to my sons, particularly my younger son, who, like me, does not leave the house without a book and a spare, or maybe, two, because, well, you never know when you might need a book.

My mom inherited her copy of the Gene from her father. She dusted off a memory this morning, ensconced in her hospital bed. Her voice is tremulous but sure. When she was eleven years old, Gone with the Wind was published and she and her dad shared a copy, reading in tandem. He would read when she was at school. When she returned home at the end of the day, he would urge her to "hurry up and read", threatening to reveal what happened next if she didn't catch up to him!

In our rich, inner book lives, "what happens next" is the driving force behind reading tomes good and bad. Some of us peek at the ending, relaxed and knowing how things turne out are ready to read the book to the endpage. Some of us consider that heresy and shudder at the thought.

But life is different. How we wish we could simply flip a few pages to see what happens next, but the denouements are veiled from us as surely as a widow's tear-stained face.

So for today, I read aloud to Mom, page by page, as I follow her story, day by day. I look for clues as to how the story ends, as surely as if I am reading the best of mysteries, pouring over red herrings and likely missing major tip offs  Mom,  tucked up in blankets to ward off the institutional chill, listens as I read to her.  Her eyes are bright as pennies as she soaks up the short essays by Rick Bragg. Like a toddler at bedtime, she insists on one  more. The writing is full of southern lore and the life she has known: gardens, front porches, lightening bugs, family, church, kitchens, and kindness, all chapters of her own storied life.

I slow my reading down and fully taste each word as I find a pace and volume suitable for a hard-of-hearing 92 year old. I live in the space of that sentence, striving to admire it's shape, it's form, it's presence, rather than racing to completion. One day this story will reach it's end and I won't be able to read it again. But, oh, the Author must be so proud of how this one turned out!

Mom's Story:  https://clyp.it/ymlvcmok


For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. 1 Corinthians 13:12 

Sailing on the Open Sea

My ship

is a house,

A frigate,

Its bow piercing minutes, hours, days.

Its wake, memories and shadows of things past.

 I am the first mate.

Tied to my Captain,

Her every order my command.

Training, still, though a lifetime I’ve been learning.

On good days,

The sky is fair,

The breeze is brisk,

Bearing us onward.

Dolphins escort us

And gulls celebrate aloud.

On bad,

Storms of pain,

Leave us foundering,

Awash and struggling to gain control.

Those hours, the sea is dark and threatening.

And creatures unseen lurk beneath us.

But the squalls pass,

And we calculate our position anew, our compass spinning,

We consult the stars, who dance at the Father’s command,

And we venture forth, intact in our snug ship, to sail another day.

One day, we’ll reach port

And whether it will be on the gust of a tempest or

The gentle crest of a salty wave

We know not.

But my Captain says she’s ready,

Whether we reach dock now

Or later.

Ever ready. Ever faithful.

Aye, she’ll retire and her body will be freed.

And to me will fall my promotion,

Hard earned and yet unwelcome.

May I have the wisdom and the strength

To unfurl my sails and ride the waves again.

More Precious than Gold

Find a group of middle aged women. It doesn’t matter where. They are easy to find – their kids are grown and flown. These women form tight bonds and gather in groups: happy hour, chick flicks, fire pits, beach condos, thrift stores, and book clubs. Any clique, anywhere. Find them and ask “Do you sleep?”

The answer is no. The answer is always no.

Hot flashes, monkey mind, snoring husbands, back aches, all wreak havoc. Every night. The deep and delicious velvet black rendezvous with the Morpheus, God of Dreams is a thing of the past. Instead, they twist, they turn, they watch the clock, they get up, and they lie back down in a synchronized dance that defies race, weight, socio-economic level.  Sharing the moniker “women of a certain age” they move in endless permutations from east to west coast – a plague of sparking gray cells and twisted sheets in the dead of the night.

I’m a member of that club and over the last few years, for various different reasons. The reason du jour is a chronic cough that has appeared to strut its stuff like a greaser with a cigarette pack under his white t-shirt when the lights go out. AT LAST my intrepid ENTs have focused on a solution – a new medication to throttle back my cough so I can sleep– that takes time to titrate up to the optimum dose. And last night, I found myself suddenly there. I took my pills as directed and waited the required hour and settled into the well worn bed and soft sheets in the spare room, where I have decamped until I conquer the cough. I got into bed, turned off the light, and….NO COUGH. I felt a comfortable drowsiness and immediately drifted off to dreamland, sighing in pleasure and contentment.

Thirty minutes later, I roused, thinking I’d heard something. I listened, heard silence, and slipped under again. Within five more minutes I heard my name over the baby monitor perched on a nearby bookshelf. I snapped to attention, like a well-sprung mousetrap, jerking upright in bed, heart beating, and adrenaline screaming “ALL SYSTEMS GO!” I sped downstairs to find my mom sitting on the edge of her bed, looking miserable.

Mary Frances is no gold brick. If she admits she is experiencing physical discomfort, then SHE REALLY IS. Born of a time when one didn’t complain of physical ailments, she tends to keep things to herself. She was experiencing shortness of breath, a tightness in her chest. I found her nitroglycerin and called 911. EMS was shortly dispatched and arrived in force – the red flashes of their vehicles bright against the ebony of the night. Five first responders crowded into mom’s small bedroom, reassuring her and assessing her. They knew their stuff, things were looking okay, but a ride to the Big House was in order. So they took Mom, in nightgown and bedroom shoes out onto the porch, where they carried her down our front steps sitting on her walker. (My heroes!)  They loaded her on a stretcher, lifted it into  into their rescue squad and disappeared into the night.

I gathered a bag of her  belongings and ran upstairs to dress and grab a few of my things. Sleep was a distant memory. It was 11:00 pm. (My pugs DID NOT EVEN WAKE UP. Five strangers came into my house and took my mother away, and they only rolled over at the small interruption to their sleep.)

Soon I was valeting the car, and entering the bright lights of the Emergency Department. And then Night Watch began. That, too, is a common experience. Test, and wait and draw blood and wait. Contact family and wait. Distract patient and wait. Mom was alert and compliant, though her age and fatigue could be seen in her pale face and puffy eyes. She received excellent care, her team moving in their own special dance from curtained nook to curtained nook. Mom was wheeled to Xray, wheeled to CT scan. Doctors and nurses, a ballet of movement and thought as her team investigated her complaint.

And dare I say Mom was …awake. Very awake. And as the hours passed and I felt fatigue set it, she resisted it, refused to have the lights dimmed or to lie down and rest. So we talked – I read all the Ogden Nash poems I could find on my phone. And we talked until we were too tired to talk, 3:00, 4:00, 5:00 am. Still she resisted sleep. More blood work, more waiting, more test results, more doctors…and still Mama sat upright. I pushed my hard wooden chair back against the wall, angled my head under the “sharps” box and rested, praying I wouldn’t fall asleep and fall out of my chair. My eyelids had weights pulling them down, my head tipped back in sleep and I jerked awake again and again.

After about 30 minutes of quiet time, there was talk of admittance, then talk of observation. Mom began to tell everyone in a half-joking, half-serious tone “I’m leaving.”  As final test results came back negative, and doctors and nurses from the day shift appeared, the plan to send her home with a cardiac follow-up soon crystalized.  We were relieved and appreciative. Her chest pain had disappeared hours ago, and other than an elevated BP, we were good to go. It was 10:30 am. We had arrived at midnight.

I got a third wind and was able to help Mom dress and get to the car. We were exhausted and grateful as we drove home. 

Back at the ranch, we had a small brunch and all I could think of was going to sleep. I had visions of Mom snoozing soundly and me tiptoeing up to my own bed. I was so sleepy, I was nodding off while I worked on the Jumble as Mom polished off a good meal. When the last crumb was consumed, I looked at her with great expectations and asked “Mom, let me help you get settled down for a nap.”

“A NAP?” she exclaimed. “I don’t need a NAP! I’m going to read!”

EPILOGUE:

Mom got comfortable with her book and I got her a cold drink. She settled in for a read. I snuck upstairs and sank into the bed. I fell immediately into a hard sleep. And then…. about 30 minutes later, the phone rang and when I answered, I heard my Mother-In-Law’s voice over the line: “Hi, Jackie, I just called to see how you are doing? Have you been able to sleep? ”

The Times, They are A'Changing.

Once upon a time my mom weighed 145 pounds. For decades she'd hop on the scale and the needle would find it's way to the magic number. Mom never stayed still, she was always doing: washing, walking, cleaning, gardening,cutting grass, cooking. When she sat down after handwashing the evening dishes, she well deserved it. When Dad commandeered the TV, she happily disappeared into a book. It didn't last long, because soon enough, she hopped up, turning on bedroom lights, turning down beds,  tucking me in, then taking the dog out for a last potty break,

That tucking me in lasted for decades. Whenever I visited home (without my husband) Mom would show up in the bedroom to say good night. We'd hash out the day, have a laugh, and she'd flick off the light switch as she exited the room (unless I disappeared into a book of my own.)

In my late 40s and 50s, after my dad was dead and buried, I came home more often, to check on Mama and to take her to "town" to buy groceries, go yardsaling, or have a bite of BBQ.  She was hale and hearty at first, continuing to walk her black pug to the end of the block.

By this time, when visitng, I slept in a king sized bed upstairs, much more roomy and private than the double in my childhood room downstairs. At first she crept upstairs to continue our ritual. But then one night, she didn't. Slowly, but surely the trips upstairs stopped all together and she lived her life downstairs.

Once she moved in with me, six years ago this April, she was proud of her ability to do as much as she could at 86. Short walks with a walker to our corner. Putting herself to bed on her own. And she upheld those routines as long as she could.

But now - the moment has come - I tuck her in. After dinner, I turn on her light, turn down her bed, lay out her nightgown, and open her hearing aid box so she can access it easily. She is still able to change into her nightgown, wash her face, clean her teeth, but then, she waits patiently for me. I pull back her cover, and she slowly and carefully positions her now-ample self on he bed and rests her head back on the  her pillows. And then, every night, gazing at me with her cloud of solid white hair, her apple-doll face covered in a myraid of age spots and regardless of the half circles of weariness that underscore her tired eyes, she looks up at me with a smile that could light up a village. I kiss her forehead, just as she once kissed mine and I tell her I love her. She tells me the same, as she did at 2, 20, and now at 58. She always ends the day with gratitude and offers her appreciation. Always ending with "Thank you, Shug."

No, Mama. Thank YOU, Shug.

Mom readingwhile a"great grand-cat" lounges nearby