Here's something nobody tells you about caregiving: loved ones with dementia will develop an entirely new language just to keep you on your toes.
Every look, every gesture, every shift in posture... it all means something. A slight turn of the head. A change in breathing. The way her hand moves toward the blanket or away from it. These aren't small things. They're full sentences.
My job most days is to read the room before Mom has to. Scan the environment. Make sure everything is where she expects it to be. Anticipate what she needs before the need even arises.
Breakfast? Check. Temperature? Check. Blankets and Hugimal? Check. Book to read? Check. The Today Show with Jenna and Sheinelle on? Double check.
It's not magic; it's just paying attention. Deeply. Over time. The way love teaches you to.
This morning, though, Mom gave me a look I couldn't quite place. Not discomfort. Not restlessness. Just... a very specific, very patient expression I hadn't catalogued yet.
I ran back through the checklist. Everything was accounted for.
Then I walked past a mirror.
Y'all. I had drinkable yogurt all over my face, looking like a Got Milk ad, above my lips, below my lips, chin, the works. I don't even know how. Please don't ask, because I genuinely do not have an answer.
Mom wasn't in distress. Mom was trying to tell me I looked a mess.
And she was absolutely right.
The language changed. The love didn't. And apparently, the standards didn't either.
She's still mothering me. Just in a different language. ☺️