Tomorrow is a special occasion around here. Dearly Demented Mom will turn 91. I must remember to change her batteries. 

Let’s take a trip down memory lane, shall we? When the Teenage Eating Machine and I moved here nearly 7 years ago, Dearly Demented Mom was not yet demented and opted to stay in Big D at a “swinging retirement apartment”. Swinging meant there were 94 women and 4 men living there. One of those lucky men lived across the hall from Mom, so she got the first wink of the day.

How could I force her to move away from daily flirting? The only thing she could make eyes at around here was an antelope. I didn’t put up a fight. Of course, being an only child, I did miss her. We talked on the phone daily and TEM and I always headed back to the Big City for each holiday occasion.

Nearly two years later, we arrived for Thanksgiving dinner with DDM. By the way, when dining at a Retirement Apartment Buffet, make sure to bring your own salt and pepper. 

On this particular visit I could see that something had changed and Mom wasn’t quite the same. After a grueling weekend of testing who’s will was stronger, I won out and Mom came to “stay for awhile” with us in the country. It’s been six years and she hasn’t left yet. Of course, now she can’t without transport. 

As her dementia has progressed, she needs less and less to live (other than round-the-clock care by you-know-who.) She makes up imaginary husbands and children on an almost daily basis. It’s hard enough to keep up with them much less find a festive was to celebrate her birthdays. She’s expecting an army of imaginary children to show up even though I’m the only one that ever does. 

The first year she was here, I zipped up to the Medium City and procured 3 live lobsters for a wonderful birthday dinner. The Teenage Eating Machine and the dog chased the lobsters around the house, the cat ran away for three days and I had to mop the floor twice. Luckily, my Bostonian mother was very pleased with her “lobsta” dinner. 

Secretly, I made that dinner extra special because she had just turned 86 and I didn’t know if she’d ever make 87. Boy did she prove me wrong. Of course if you’re busy mentally getting married and having a passel of children like she has imagined the past few years, time does fly by. Recently she was convinced she gave birth to twin boys. 

One birthday, when she was recently “widowed” from another made up husband, I thought a great present might be a male stripper. Then I thought again and decided someone would call Adult Protective Services on me. 

Last year, when she hit The Big Nine O, I threw a whale of a celebration. I invited all her caregivers, fed them BBQ and let her enjoy watching reruns of “Matlock” and “Monk.” The only problem with the party was Dearly Demented Mom believed she was 78. 

When I announced to her the other day that she was about to turn 91, Dearly Demented Mom looked me square in the eye and said, “No I’m not. I’m only going to be 88.” Twins will age you like that. 

Maybe this year the best party might just be sharing a shrimp ring together while watching “Murder, She Wrote.” If we don’t take it easy, next year when she turns 92, she’ll probably be convinced she’s 100.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Mikie Baker
www.mikiebaker.com 

Medina Mikie, Ink. 2011