Parenting a 94-year-old Toddler

I did everything I could not to be responsible for anyone else's life

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At 30 years old, I was drunk, rageful and an IV drug user. I was also pregnant every couple of years despite my best efforts—and yes, I am aware that after reading that first sentence you might have some questions about my best efforts. I would too. But, it was the best I could do in 1987.

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Bad Mommy

I wasn’t fit to be a mother. Garbage in, Garbage Out. GIGO.¹ Even putting aside the drugs and the alcohol—which I couldn’t do until everything was gone—but aside from what I put into my body, what was coming out was toxic. Rage. Destruction. Impulse control; I’d never heard the phrase and I didn’t have any. I’d had miscarriages and an abortion and I was closing in on an age where my hormones were the shot callers. My eggs desperately wanted to become babies I knew I didn’t want, couldn’t care for. I couldn’t be sure what I’d do the next time I missed my period, but I was completely certain that I had the ability to hurt an infant. Really hurt them.

I’d picture myself, hungover and sleep deprived, maybe high, maybe not, but hovering over this baby that won’t stop crying or shitting or being so freaking needy because it’s a baby goddamn it. I saw myself pick up that warm, tender little lump, smelling like fresh baked bread and just screaming “SHUT UP!” as I hurled it against a cement wall.

I could do that. I wasn’t sure I couldn’t not do it. The best way I could keep my unborn babies safe was to keep them unborn. In 1987, at 30 years old, I got a tubal ligation; I had my tubes tied.

This could have been us, me and little baby girl no name.

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I’ve made three very good decisions in my life.

One was coming into recovery at age 33, and staying. The second was having my fallopian tubes cauterized. I’ve never regretted or second guessed either.

Now, at 67, I find myself in a role paralleling that of a new parent. My third good decision: bringing Mom to live with me. I made that choice a few years ago, not fully aware of all it would involve. Not forseeing my life would soon resemble that of every young parent.

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Parenting is Caregiving is Parenting

I make baby food—pureed this, that and anything and everything. There is a tush to be wiped and lotioned and A&Dd (See what I did there? That’s not an easy thing to make into a verb, but you get it, don’t you?). Sneaking into her room, leaning in to check for breathing.

We both do loads & loads of laundry, washing stuffed animals that’ve been too well loved, missing eyes and used as snot rags, napkins, found their way into her mouth and g-d only knows what or where else. I share the environmental guilt of the endless stream of disposable diapers that will never be anything but toxic landfill.

With an actual infant, you’re gifting them new skills, they watch, imitate and until they can do it for themselves, you do it for them. Wiping noses and tushies, spoon feeding, bathing and dressing them, toilet training. You look forward to the day they’ll sleep through the night, so that you can too. Load your baby into a stroller day after day and take her out for a walk in the sun, dress her the way you want while you can, in cute little outfits and silly hats.

Dementia, it’s the same process, except the film is running backwards. Someone has flipped the rewind switch. She’s forgetting what she’d learned and I can’t teach her anything she once had but has lost. That synapse is burned, clogged, trapped in clumps of amyloid plaques. Neurofibrillary tangles block neurons. Microglia—the vacuum cleaner of the brain—stops working; waste builds up. Inflammation. Shrinkage. The only advantage to understanding the brain’s deterioration process is that (K)nowledge insists on my being sympathetic, understanding none of this is her choice, not lazy or apathetic—she’s overwhelmed and confused. She’s no more intentionally difficult than a neurodivergent child with ADHD or ASD. What these situations require is education, understanding, and patience.

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The decision I made at 30 was the right one. I couldn’t have done any of this then. The universe, with its dark and twisted sense of humor, realized that at 67, I’m finally equipped to parent. I can do now what I couldn’t do then.

Not always, but most of the time. I’m not always patient or loving. Like any young parent I’m sleep-deprived, my attention being pulled in a dozen directions while I have a 94-year-old toddler who relies on my for everything. Everything. Who requires constant monitoring, attention and entertainment. Who can’t fully communicate her needs and wants and so I learn her language as she forgets mine. Interpret her gestures, moods, body language. I sit up nights when my little person can’t sleep, hold her when she is frightened by things she doesn’t understand or only she can see and hear. Sometimes, I have to insist on shooing the imaginary friends out because it’s past everyone’s bedtime.

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The universe hears you

In 1987, when deciding to get my tubes tied, I’d have told you I’d probably eventually be a parent one of two ways. I’d marry someone with (hopefully) grown-assed kids. Or I’d be single and adopt, probably an older child.

Single, I seem to have adopted an older child.
The universe has quite the sense of humor.

1. This computer geek phrase made its debut the same year I made mine, 1957. To paraphrase Army Specialist William D. Mellin, “ ‘sloppily programmed’ inputs inevitably lead to incorrect outputs.” That was me all over.

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