The Sand House pt.2

He said no.

I heard the no, between his chuckles and warped speech, the kind I usually have to rummage through to find the words he actually means to use. I feel myself starting to sink. I tread harder but play dumb because I'm tired and don't have the energy a commitment to this conversation will require.

"No?" I ask, hoping I'm wrong about what I'm suspecting he means. "No, what?" I always have to have an idea of where he's going with his words, to help guide him to his meaning. Like a game of charades but with half syllables instead of pantomime. Since his brain tumor and ensuing stroke, he has had a problem with word retrieval. He knows what he wants to say, he just can't find the words to say it. Sometimes he uses words from the other languages he knows, thinking they're the ones he needs, but usually they're not. Unless I can figure out the terrain of where his meaning lives, we're both lost and when he's lost, he gets frustrated and waves me away with an impatient groan, stops trying to say anything and instead resigns himself to be locked in the prison of his mind.

But during this conversation, he seems more lighthearted. I wonder if he's had some drinks.

"Sand House." I can decipher the words through his mirth. "Sand House!" he repeats, louder, like a tourist speaking to someone who doesn't understand his language, assuming a greater volume will make everything clearer.

The Sand House is the assisted living facility we visited together. And, in this stage in his life, it is the perfect senior living situation for him.

The Sand House is in Santa Monica right across the street from the beach. My dad moved us to Santa Monica from 'Little Russian' in West Hollywood just before I went into the fourth grade. He hasn't budged since. Santa Monica is the one place on Earth where he sees God. Or at least His handiwork. The beach is his altar. When he is at the beach, he is in his version of heaven.

The problem is he hasn't been going to the beach in the last few weeks. He hasn't taken his regular walks on the boardwalk or really done much of anything.

Since he was duped by his Internet Bride, he's just been sleeping all day. He wakes around 4pm to sit in front of the TV, and barely eats, if at all. The gold-grubbing thief arranged for a woman who takes care of an ailing, next-door neighbor to come every day and cook and straighten up for him. But this caretaker woman used to drink wine with the Internet Scavenger so I'm not sure about her morals or her intentions. When I ask my dad what he's eaten each day, his first meal is always cheese, yogurt and coffee and then a soup as his dinner. The skin is flapping around his spaghetti-thin arms. He is looking as skinny as a concentration camp victim. Each of these conversations breaks off another little piece of my heart.

How could this have happened to my dad?

When we visited The Sand House, its bright, airy interior and cheerful staff and residents was a stark contrast to the gloom in which he now lives. I hoped he was seeing what I was seeing.

They serve three gourmet meals a day but also have a small menu available until 6pm so my dad could eat whenever and wherever he likes. They have housekeeping services and laundry. They have exercise classes including his favorites, yoga and tai chi.

This is the room where they execise

They have physical, occupational and speech therapies, all covered by Medicare so it would be 100% free. My dad's ego has always prevented him from getting the therapy care that he's needed after each of his medical maladies. His dragging left arm and leg and his stunted speech are the result of his inaction. I can do it myself, he always said. Here, I tell him, he can give his body and brain the attention they need to finally heal.

"You deserve this," I told him, when we first toured the place. "You've always taken care of everyone. Please, please just this once, do something for yourself."

We even went back again to see the actual rooms that were available, to get a sense of what his life would be like living there. I felt tears meekly slide into my eyes as I looked at the view that he could have.

Actual balcony view from the room he could have

I really wanted this for my dad. I really wanted this for myself. When I'm older and retired, I want to live in a resort overlooking the ocean with meals available anytime of the day and people cleaning my room when it needed plus a variety of activities planned for me - like this one that happened this month on the 20th:

It would be like living in a college dorm except with older people. Sure, when I looked around there were a few people that had special needs but the majority seemed like they were there because they wanted to live their lives fully, not be locked away in some isolated apartment like my dad's.

When we got back down to the lobby after seeing the two available apartments the last time we visited Sand House, my dad's ailing leg forced him into an awaiting chair and it appeared, but I didn't want to look too closely, that he was softly weeping under his fedora. I wanted to give him his moment and had to admit that although I can see the beauty of this potential situation, he might see it differently.

Here's what I saw (the rooftop deck)

Here's what he might see

I know, after doing yoga for many years, that what we see in this world may not be what actually exists. People see a blend of what is in front of them and what has happened to them in the past and/or what they are expecting to happen in the future.

I'm sure my dad has seen images of terrible nursing homes, although I would never call this a nursing home. I'd say it's more like a resort exclusive to seniors.

He said, after his brief weeping episode, when I leaned down to see if he was okay, "I am not in my grave yet." This was quite a sentence for someone who normally has trouble stringing together more than three words. He proclaimed this with a hot burst of frustration born from the tension taking over his body.

I know when he gets like this not to argue. Besides, there was nothing to argue. "Of course not." I tried to smooth his rising hackles. "This is not a grave. You're apartment is more like a grave. This is living. This is being surrounded by people who want to be your friend, who have enough of their own money that they don't want to steal yours. This is where you can meet a nice woman who will think you are so handsome and like you for who you are. This is where you can do things you enjoy all day long or do nothing at all. Or go for a walk on the beach, which is only across the street!" I ended, sounding more like a cheerleader or a spokesperson for an infomercial than the scared, defeated daughter I was actually being.

Yet, when I called to check in on him the next day, he told me, in no uncertain terms, No. He would not be moving into The Sand House.

Okay, I told him, feeling like a deflated balloon, trying not to get stuck in the slimy swamp of inviting hopelessness, trying not to let anger take over the situation and bring it to an unshakable end. I wished him good night and hung up the phone.

The next day, I called him again and told him I wanted to take him to lunch. "Okay!" he said with excitement in his voice. I couldn't imagine how lonely he must be now that the greedy witch had abandoned him.

"I'm coming on Saturday and we'll go back to The Sand House and have lunch in their restaurant and you can meet the Russian server that works there and wanted to meet you." During our last visit, the nice lady who was facilitating our tours, Kortney, told us there was a woman who spoke Russian and was excited to meet my dad but we were running late that day and she had already gone home.

"Okay," he said, sounding a little less certain.

"Great!" I wasn't going to get dragged down by my fears for his future. I wasn't going to get tangled in my frustration that this situation was going to be harder than I imagined, that his Old World Ego wasn't going to let him be cared for. If I went down, there wouldn't be anyone left to see him as the strong, determined man he is that brought us to this country and fought for our survival until we could fight for ourselves. And now I had to fight for him.

Saturday. It was another chance.

My dad sitting in what could be his room

The Chair

This is the chair I have lived with for over 8 years.

It's the chair that I have come to accept as a practical part of my life. It's not my style but it's functional and there's no reason to go out and buy another chair since this one works. At least that's what I've been telling myself for 8 years.

There's a bit more to this story than just a functional chair. This chair used to belong to my husband's deceased wife. Her passing, 14 years ago,  is a tragedy. It is one that we all live with, in subtle ways, everyday. I've done many things around the house that I inherited from her, things to make living here not feel like I am living in someone else's life. The living room has been remodeled, painted and shifted. The dishes have mostly been replaced. The bedroom furniture (and mattress) is new.....except for, of course, the chair.

I didn't understand how much it bothered me. I realize now that, unconsciously, I used to picture her sitting in it and getting ready for her day, bantering with the husband we now share and laughing with the child she had to leave behind. In a way, the chair is her anchor to the new life I've tried to create with my husband and my little boys and, of course, the boy she had to leave behind. But for some reason, I didn't have the guts to get rid of it. Maybe, my reluctance was my way of letting her hold on to her grip to the most intimate part of my house. Maybe, in some small part of me, I felt guilty.

I finally shared the meaning of the chair with my husband one night.

He was surprised. He had thought I had brought the chair with me when I moved in. He had no recollection of it previously at all. He asked why I hadn't said anything sooner. I couldn't really answer past the tears clouding my vision.

This past Monday I celebrated my birthday. I love birthdays. I've decided that as we grow older, every year should be a party to celebrate that we're still here, that we still get to enjoy the gifts we've been given and resolve, in the next year, to become yet even better versions of ourselves.

My husband waited until the end of the day to give me his gift. I could tell he was up to something when I tried to go into our room and the door was locked. OK, honey, I called out. I have no idea what you're up to, wink, wink, I said to him through the door, laughing to myself that he always waited until the last minute to do these things.

Then the door opened and I rushed in to get something I needed for one of the boys. I stopped right in my tracks. And this is what I saw:

And I started to cry. Because, he heard me.

Babysitters 101

OK, you're convinced ~ after my last compelling post ~ that you need to amp up your love life. Yes....with your husband! It'll be good for you, your hubby and most of all your kids, who will see their parents in love and will then, in turn, choose someone to marry who embodies that ideal and who they will expect to looooove their entire lives. One of the whole points of a happy life, right?

(Or. If you're single, then you need someone to give you an occassional break so you can have an adult conversation, a girl's night out and maybe even meet the actual Mr. Right instead of that guy that was pretending to be him.)

But. Who will watch the kids while you paint the town in crimson hearts accompanied by harps and violins? (Or shake that groove thang in your sequin capris?) If your family lives far away, or is just not available, you may have to find a babysitter. But, is it really worth the effort?

I have one friend who told me, a few years ago, when I shared with her that I had gone on a date with my husband at a time when my kids were still pretty little that she and her husband hadn't gone out in years. She said their dates consisted of sitting on the couch and maybe watching a movie on TV. I found out recently that they've since divorced. He cheated with ~ then married ~ her best friend, who went out all the time, ha ha.

OK, that's an extreme example. But it does happen.  Maybe we don't divorce immediately but those of us who don't put energy into our relationship can languish in a murky sea of boredom and dissatisfaction. Who wants that? And it's scary to think that every 13 seconds a couple does divorce.

If getting a sitter is the solution to a harmonious household or a merry, mellow mommy, then what are we waiting for?

Here's the how-to list....

Ways to find a babysitter:

• Ask around
• Check babysitting websites: Sittercity or Care are good bets and you can even run background checks
• Jen's List is also a great resource

The first thing you can obviously do, is ask around. Which of your friends has someone whom they love? That can be a little tricky though. Because, if you start using them on a regular basis it could cause a conflict with your friend's babysitting needs. This actually happened to me. I was so excited about my sitters that I started sharing their information with everyone that might need one including all my MOMs Club friends ~ which meant she could never babysit when I needed her. So ideally it would be best to find your own sitter. And only share her info with very close friends who will sign in blood not to use her on the nights you need her. One gal I did find from a friend (who wasn't using her much), Emily, is this amazing 16 year old who works 3 part-time jobs ~ between school ~ with great enthusiasm. When I asked her how much she would charge to watch my kids, she said it didn't really matter because she loved hanging out with kids so much. Really? Wow.

I've also had great luck in two places online: Sittercity and Care. I prefer Sittercity but I'm not sure why. I've just had better luck there, I guess. When I first tried Sittercity I found a wonderful sitter, Tabitha. I was 6 months pregnant and already had an 18 month old boy who wanted to do anything except sit and listen. Mommy's swollen feet just weren't up for the chase so Tabitha was able to help me 2x a week. (Mommy was not feeling up to dating daddy too much at that point). Tabitha moved on to a more regular position as a nanny but now I have three other great gals in rotation (because when you need someone, you need someone). One of my sitters, Desiree is a volunteer fighfighter EMT who is in nursing school. Total tomboy, loves to play with my rambuncious boys. Another, Lindsey was president of her high school and is now studying PR at Boston University. She sits for us in the summers when she's back home (like now!). And the third, Allison (the one my friends stole) works at the CA Cartwheel Center and is studying to be an Occupational Therapist. 

These girls are more qualified to watch my kids than I am!

When you place an ad online, you can get many responses. Do yourself and them a favor and listen to your gut. You don't have to interview them all. If she seems flaky on the website, she's probably even worse in person. And if the picture she submitted shows her partying with her friends, you might consider passing on that one too. Do an initial phone interview before you meet in person. Make sure she can accomodate your scheduling needs. If you decide to have her come meet you, have her bring a casual resume with a list of references. You have to ask for this because most won't think to do this and time is a-wasting! it's a good idea to have the kids there while you talk to her so you can see how she interacts with them. It's a great sign if she offers to help you with whatever comes up while you're talking to her i.e. she helps distract one of the kids while you answer the phone or includes your child in a quick conversation. You want her to actually like children. The caretaker websites offer a list of suggested questions for the interview. Scan the ones that are important to you, like: what would you do if my child got hurt while you were watching them and how would you handle it if one brother tried to impale the other with his lightsaber? You know. The usual.

You can also try Jen's List, which is btw, an amazing, free, local resource for parents who like to do stuff with their family. Jen's List has a seperate section for nannies and babysitters referred by other Jen's List subscribers so you have a built-in reference and they're usually willing to talk to you and answer any questions you may have about their posting. And if they're taking the time to post, then you know they love her.

You'll know right away if a girl is a good fit for your family. Don't feel guilty if she's not. Just be polite and thank her for coming. During one of my babysitter searches, I couldn't win between the aspiring models who showed up to the interviews in stage make-up to the dominatrix who showed up in thigh-high stiletto boots. To play with kids, really? (she looked normal in her picture) But this last round, every girl was a winner. 

In my babysitting job ads, I ask for someone who will play with the boys instead of watch TV with them. I ask for someone who is willing to do small chores around the house while the boys sleep. Things like, laundry, folding clothes, dishes, straightening stuff up and restoring the play area to it's original (or better) condition. All the girls that work for me, do all of this. Yes, they're college girls so you have to actually ASK them to do the things you want done. Don't set yourself up for disappointment by assuming it will just be done when you get home. Say things like, "I would so love it if you could fold the laundry when the boys go down." And, "It would really, really help me if you could do all the dishes and wipe the counters when you have time." You have to ask and if you ask with sweet enthusiasm, you'll feel better about it and so will they.

How much should you charge? And what should you have her do? Now this part is purelly a subjective call. Babysitters are asking outrageous amounts to play with your kids and watch TV while they sleep. For some reason, they think they are entitled to it because having them at your house is worth a lot of money. To them at least. I've found that the babysitters who ask for more than $12 an hour are usually too entitled to even do a good job for me. 

I pay most of my sitters $10 an hour. One gets $12. And they are happy with that. Yes, I usually give a little more at the end of the night, for instance, I round up from the hour in which we came home. Or just give her a $5 or $10 bump if it's close to the end of the hour. But the agreement is for $10 an hour and that's how you weed out the hard workers from the entitled ones. You don't want an entitled girl. No one is going to make a living from babysitting for you, it's just extra money so don't feel like you need to support them. And going out shouldn't run you $500 by the end of the night. It's a tough economy.

Check her references if you like her and if she shines, put her in your smartphone. That way you have a string of girls and you can know in minutes whether they are available or not the day or night you need them.

Those are the basics, at least, for me. Did I forget something?