Day 5 - 14.02.2012

It was too hot to go outside.

This is the day that I realize that I am replicating my Grandfather’s nursing home lifestyle.

It all began with a nap. I’m not a napper. Many of my friends are and I think it must stem back to their childhood. They were the babies that slept through the night or didn’t resent the afternoon nap.

Not me, I’d fight tooth and nail to stay awake. I didn’t want to miss out on making those extra mud pies during daylight hours.

But yesterday I napped. For an hour. Mostly.

It would have been longer if a football team hadn’t rung asking me to buy a book of their lottery tickets. I don’t have much hope of selling a book while I am home on maternity leave. Who would I sell to? The postman? The e-bay courier? The checkout chick at Coles supermarket? And a lottery book is not like the chocolates kids get sent home with from school to sell. At least a box of giant Freddo frogs would serve a purpose in my home. 

NB: Pineapple Freddo's are only available until May 2012 according to  http://www.fundraising.com.au/Fundraising-Products/One-Dollar-Classic-Range

So why do we nap?

To pass the time? To have lucid dreams? Out of boredom?

I think that all of the above applies to the elderly. Plus, they are hedging a bet each time that they may not wake up ‘This time I’ll die in my sleep Goddamnit!!’

I am so ashamed of my nap.

I was napping out of eye exhaustion. I call it internet induced napping.

My grandfather naps. I’ve seen it. It scares me as his mouth falls open and due to deafness he is difficult to rouse. There have been many times when I have thought that he was dead.

He jokes that he will die in his room at the nursing home. I tell him no he won’t. He will probably die having a micro-sleep when I am driving him somewhere.

Imagine trying to get the body out of the car afterwards! Remember, they do start to pee and poo quite quickly after death, so I would want to push the body out of the car as soon as possible. Not plausible if I am driving on a freeway or in the hills however.

Other similarities between being elderly and a housewife include being home-bound, looking forward to meals as highlights of your day (I prefer my string beans cooked briefly as opposed to the stewed vegetables that get served up to my Grandfather), reading (me: kid’s cookbooks and how to birth books, he: romance novels that are really dirty books full of boob and bum talk) and writing. 

Writing. This is where we really have something in common.

Both my grandfather and myself have long term pen pals. Mine is in Scandinavia and I have been writing to her for 21 years. I should send her a key to my house to celebrate. My Grandfather on the other hand has been writing to a legion of people overseas for many years. Most have died and he now writes to their children. I couldn't replicate this due to language difficulties. There is more to Swedish than 'birdie birdie birdie' and I don't know it.

I suppose I could send my pen pal's children a copy of the IKEA catalogue and ask for a translation of the furniture names. What is an Aneboda anyway?

My Grandfather really likes to get mail. You could start writing to him now and have a response back within 24 hours. It doesn't matter in the least that he doesn't know you.

Moving on, like a pensioner in their 70’s paisley, it doesn’t matter what I wear at home. In fact right now I am wearing thigh high stockings with a pair of tiny fluoro green shorts, no bra and a black tank top. And socks. Don't want to get a snag in the stockings after all.

I also have a lurid animal print dress that I am keen to wear out. It is tight as an ethnic doing supermarket shopping and makes me look like one of those English girls that live in grey high-rise structures. I think it would look great teamed with a pair of fishnets and some black patent leather boots. Dinner date at a posh restaurant soon husband, yeah?

Like my Grandfather, I also wait for visitors or callers that never present, and begin to eye off a bottle of spirits come 11am. I have little interest in doing anything practical and begin to stare out of the window at passers-by.

Living on the riverfront, with a walking trail five metres away, gives me ample time to people watch. Unfortunately this goes two ways and many walkers have been stopped in their tracks by me yelling something from the front yard to my invisible husband inside the home. Perhaps I should stop using the phrase ‘Can you help me with this?’ when dragging shopping from my car.

Pensioners and myself both get incredible heartburn. Recently, I saw an old woman stop midway through her ‘walk’ at West Lakes Mall to take a Mylanta tablet. It encouraged me to do the same. The oldies and I are also on random medications for unusual ailments. Currently, I am spending more on nasal sprays than a 1980’s coke addict on club entry.

I can now moan for hours about my Braxton Hicks pains, swollen feet and spider veins, much the same as how the elderly bang on about their angina, gout and blocked ear drums. Nobody cares and doctors can’t diagnose what’s wrong with us.

I have also found myself registered for the Great Amazing Toilet Race in 2012. I am not sure who is more incontinent, the nursing home patrons or myself. Luckily, they are easy to push over and I win the coveted seat (unless you tell me a hilarious joke on the way or a zimmerframe is being used as a natural hurdle).

Pensioners and I also become enraged easily with strangers, especially with those not doing the right thing. But whilst my Grandfather yells at staff to close his bedroom door as he ‘was not born in a fucking tent’, I yell at rude adults who push me out of the way in supermarkets. Can they not see that I am 9 months pregnant – what on earth do they think is in there? A protective layer of doughnuts? I am not a bumper boat. I am doing a growth job here people!

Pensioners and myself are also constantly tripping. This is because we both have tunnel vision. Whilst mine is due to an ever-expanding belly that hides what is underfoot, theirs is due to reverting to child-like behaviours.

Finally, my grandfather’s and my natural hair colour now secretly matches. But whilst he covers his with hats, I cover mine with dye.

My fingers are exhausted. I’m off for some red jelly, custard and a nap.