Four-Donut
Days
To say life has been hectic lately is like saying
teenagers have hormones, cats are finicky, and chocolate is popular, especially with women.
My normal life involves a husband, a special needs
son, a push-every-envelope teenage daughter, a budding writing career, a
volunteer job, and my role as head-servant to two cats and a pony disguised as
a dog. Somewhere in there I try to fit in taking care of myself and follow
Christ’s admonition to do unto others as I’d have them do unto me.
Recently, I added the long-anticipated task of
moving my parents from their four- bedroom home in Texas to a 1-BR assisted
living apartment in Georgia. My parents made the decision, and the whole family
was pleased by it.
But there were issues. Like too much stuff. The treasures
of decades simply wouldn’t fit. Not in a 1 BR apartment. Not in the homes of
the three children trying to downsize. There was also the paperwork. It’s scary
how much legalese is generated by the simple act of releasing just a tad of
independence. Everything has to be signed, cross-signed, notarized, stamped, and,
it feels like, blessed by foreign
potentates.
We spent hours deciding who got Aunt Edith’s Bible, when
to do the yard sale and how to tell Daddy he couldn’t bring his fang-happy
little dog, who hates everyone but him. Meetings followed conference calls. Betwixt
and between, I scrambled to complete the urgent things, let other stuff go, and
served odd meals. Corn pancakes were a big hit, Beanie-Weenie’s with broccoli,
not so much.
Preparing for
my parents’ arrival, I drove to their new home often. Each time, my nemesis
beckoned me, promising sweet reprieve.
The Krispy Kreme Donut Shop.
If like me, you have a tendency to retain fat and
sugar, donuts are evil. Especially if you love Krispy Kreme’s white-cream
filled, chocolate frosted variety and were born incapable of eating just one. Fortunately,
there are no KK Dens of Iniquity on my side of town. I have enough
willpower—just barely—not to drive across the city to reach one. I hadn’t been
in a Krispy Kreme Donut Shop in years.
But there it was, right on the path to my parents’
new home. I ignored it and tumbled my to-do list around in my head, trying to squeeze
in one more thing. I needed to wash the car before I picked my folks up at the
airport. Our dog, Cocoa, needed a bath. Could I go to a do-it-yourself carwash,
tie Cocoa to the back of my RAV4, and wash him simultaneously?
Before PETA could make a citizen’s arrest, several
stressful things happened. My daughter, full of the superior wisdom inherent in
teens, stopped her ADD medication and promptly had her third car accident. Our insurance
company dropped us, so I was able to add shopping for high-risk insurance to my
to-do list. I like to keep my list really full. Sleep is SO over-rated.
Our son Luke, who has autism, began suffering mysterious
gastrointestinal problems. Since he doesn’t understand pain, Luke reacts
differently. He punched himself in the stomach. When a teacher told him he
could not go to the bathroom for the third time in 15 minutes Luke felt he
wasn’t adequately expressing his need, so he slugged her. We emphasize the
value of communication in our family. This is not what I meant.
Returning from
one of a series of fruitless doctor’s appointments, I sped down the highway. Luke munched on a bag of crackers, oblivious
to traffic whipping in and out of the lanes around us at insane speeds. I gritted
my teeth and concentrated.
A cracker escaped
Luke’s grip, rolled across the floorboard and landed somewhere at my feet. To
Luke, this was a catastrophe rivaling Wall Street’s worst day. At the speed of
light, he unbuckled his seat belt, scrambled across the seat and began fumbling
between my ankles looking for his snack. I screamed and threatened him with
death if he didn’t immediately cease, desist and re-buckle.
By some miracle, we were not hit by oncoming trucks.
I returned him to his school unscathed, other than by the flames that had come
out of my mouth during the cracker incident. In a normal, ideal world, I could
have gone home and soothed myself with chocolate and a good book until the bus deposited
him in our driveway.
Normal is a point of view. In my normal, there was
just enough time to make it to my next meeting. The assisted living manager
informed me that mom’s crotchety general practitioner had, disdaining repeated clarifications,
checked the wrong box on the official move in document--again. Although Mom lived independently in her Texas
home, the form, as completed, said she functioned about three steps above a
rutabaga.
We had to have paperwork which indicated Mom’s true
functioning level. Otherwise, she would be admitted to the center’s somewhat
depressing and exorbitantly expensive skilled nursing ward, while Dad stayed on
the Assisted Living side.
I started the drive home, contemplating options. I visualized
Mom, in her Queen Elizabeth voice, instructing me to cancel all arrangements. I
pictured Daddy holding Dr. Crotchety at rifle-point until he checked the
correct box.
A neon red light flashed in the corner of my eye.
“Hot Donuts. Now.”
I fought the steering wheel, but it was futile. Of
its own volition, the RAV pulled into Krispy Kreme.
A demon taking the form of a smiling young man stood
behind the counter. “Good afternoon, Ma’am! Buy a dozen donuts today; you’ll
get a dozen free!”
Get
thee behind me… “Just one of those.” I pointed to the
chocolate-frosted white cream-filled ones. Perfect, plump, pleasure-filled… Surely they used to be bigger?
“Just one?” the demon inquired, lifting an eyebrow.
The donuts in the case seemed to shrink.
“Well…maybe two.”
I left with four donuts, two of which I ate before I
got to the car.
Some days are just four-donut days.
