Does she know who you are?
Well, I’m not sure she knows why she knows me but she knows she knows me.
I always tell her I am her daughter. Throughout my visit, I find opportunities to refer to the fact that she is my mother. Sometimes she picks up on it and sometimes not. It used to be important to me but now—not so much.
When I tell her that her oldest daughter is about to turn 70, she gasps and says, “What does that make me?” I usually tell her that it makes her 110,000 years old! At this she laughs and asks, “No really, how old am I?”
“Almost 95,” I answer and then she goes into her imitation of what she thinks a really old person is like, complete with quavering voice and trembling gait.
“How old are you, really?” I ask.
“Oh, about 25…plus a few,” she grins.
Once I was out of town for two weeks and then she really didn’t know who I was. “I was “that lady” who was taking her places but within the hour, she was comfortable with me again.
This is all that matters—that she accepts and enjoys me as a part of her life.
I certainly enjoy her.