Skeptic

As I write this, Hangdog is headed to the hospital. He fell this morning and he's insisting on going to the hospital. Our doctor (saint-in-training) will meet him there.

First skeptical thought: He knows the husband is leaving today.

This is the third fall this week.

Second skeptical thought: Convenient timing.

He's having erratic behavior more of the time. He's babbling at one point and coherent the next.

Third skeptical thought: It's a plot to get pain pills.

One of my wives-in-law visited with him yesterday and then called me to express her concern.

Fourth skeptical thought: She's in on it. (Just kidding!)

The husband is stressed, as am I. We had a quick bite with some friends last night and as usual, I looked around the table and realized every single person there is dealing with some form of this situation.

The Sandwich Generation

I'm trying to figure out how I got sandwiched.

I am an only child. I am blessed with two wonderful step-children. They have wonderful mothers. To J & T, I am an afterthought, at best. My parents are semi-healthy and independent for now. Yet, every day I deal with some issue with the oldies. Does that make me kind and wonderful or does it make me a doormat?

The Nightmare Never Ends

The oldies are home. I use the term home loosely. This is MY home. In 17 months, they've managed to destruct my home, my marriage, my career and ultimately my life. The oldies are my 84-year old in-laws.

She's frying now. They're southern so there is no food eaten that is not fried. This has led to multiple fires.

Better go check out the kitchen.