I taught kindergarten for what seemed like 100 years. I cannot count how many little shoes and little socks I’ve put on. I raised two children: little shoes and little socks.
My husband fell down these stairs several weeks ago ( this photos is taken from the LANDING half-way down. He fell from the top step and hit every single step to the front door. How dow I know? I scrubbed up the blood.) In the ensuing days, I find myself putting his socks and shoes on. He just can’t get them on. (I’m reminded of Lisi, now 24. She put her little socks and sneakers on and I looked down and said “Baby, you have them on the wrong feet.” She looked down for a minute and then wailed “These are the only feet I HAVE!” )
I put little dabs of nail polish on the insides of her sneaks. When they both touched, she had them on her right feet.
I wish Mike’s cure was as easy as two dabs of nail polish.
I can see I have a long and winding road ahead of
I just hope I’m up to it. I can’t seem to hit the right tone–either I’m treating him like a five year old or I’m mad at him for–well, for being a five year old. He has his moments—they are just with other people.
Today, he told me he couldn’t get the dogs to quit barking. Oh, PLEASE. Tell them to be quiet. Give them a cookie. Just don’t wait for me to come home to take care of it…after you spend 20 minutes complaining. He told me the other night that he never wanted dogs at all. Well, Dude, there are a lot of things in life I never wanted.
Be calm and carry on.