“You’re acting like a small child, refusing to listen to me.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“Well, I guess roles have officially reversed.”

The long and short of it is, I’m mad at her. Against my wishes, and with little consideration for my feelings, my mother has let herself age. She hates the number now attached to her, yet I’m not seeing a whole lotta effort in the denial of what a seventy-six year old can and should be doing. I expect – no – I need her to fight it with all she’s got. I’m simply not interested in role reversals or transitioning of any sort. She’s my mama and I’m her baby. This is the relationship I’ve come to count on for forty-seven years and it’s always worked out quite nicely for me, fabulously in fact. I see no need to shake things up. I’m a don’t-mess-with-what’s-working kinda girl.

If we are making assessments based solely on appearance, even the harshest of judges would question the truth of her seventy-six years. She looks fabulous. For the most part, she’s physically in great health, as is my dad. A true blessing. It’s the little things, those nuances only me and my sisters notice, teasing the possibility of bigger changes to come. I am left praying for some level of acceptance and for peace among this thing in life I’ve never been good at – change.

I see so much of her mother, my nana, in her. She’s in the new posture my mother has assumed, a bit hunched over as if she’s always a little tired. She’s in the careful way my mama moves about, the larger spread to her stance to ensure balance and stability. I see my nana in my mother’s mannerisms; in the way she shrugs her shoulders and raises her eyebrows in conversation as if to claim she’s simply too old to understand the changes in this crazy world or no longer has the energy to worry about it all. She’s even in my mother’s staunch assertion that she’s “not much for sweets” yet they always seem to find a spot on her plate after dinner. 

I don’t give her any slack. I watch her like a hawk and log every memory lapse, every errant comment as if I’m building a case against her to justify my right to be angry. Thing is, it’s so much easier to be angry and annoyed than sad and scared. I’m just not in a place where I’m ready to feel the depth of what my parents aging really means.

It’s clear I’m not the only one pushing against this tide of readjustment. My mom doesn’t want me telling her what to do making suggestions any more than I want to be giving them. She  might as well be the child with her hands over her ears or the teenager running off to her room and slamming the door. (not that I ever did that).

Every now and then, in the midst of this tug of war, I look beyond my own needs, let her wrap me in a hug and we both mercifully fall back into our defined roles. In her embrace I find my mama; the woman whose hugs make the rest of the world disappear, disarm my frustrations, quell my fear and allow me to rest – if just for a moment – in the truth that I am loved and I am strong enough to live this next stage. After all, it is from her that I learned the virtue of patience and the compassion with which it is to be delivered. For many years I watched my mom care for my nana and accept each stage of the aging process with the patience and selflessness my nana so needed and deserved. It’s brilliant, really. God’s design – not without its challenges – but rich, real, and whole. 

She’s in my hands and the way I bite my lower lip when I’m excited. She’s in my eyes and the smile that lights them. She’s in the particular way I rest my arm on the console when riding in the car, in my love for sweets and the way I cry when I laugh. I wonder if my children see her – their nana in their mama – in this impossibly beautiful, beautifully impossible circle of life.