Yesterday’s heart attack was my Dad’s third; hopefully the third time’s a charm and he will take the steps necessary to improve his health once and for all. And, yes, Dad, that means eating more lettuce and less cheeseburgers, more chicken (oh god, not chicken, again) and less steak and more fresh fruit and fewer candy bars (trust me; I understand the sacrifice involved in that one).
It’s tough, you know? My parents worked hard their whole lives to put food on the table and to clothe their three daughters in the manner to which we were accustomed; they have earned the right to enjoy their golden years, cheeseburgers, steaks, and all, but….we kind of want to have both of them around to harass our children well into their adulthoods and, you know, when the heart gives up the ghost, that’s pretty much all she wrote.
Gah. It’s a fine line between wanting to see your parents happy and wanting what’s best for them, especially when the two don’t exactly line up in harmonious synchronization.
And they say parenting is hard; raising parents is no piece of cake, either.
Oh, yeah, no more cake, either, Dad. Sorry.