Lest you think I am picking on my mother later in the post, let me start by listing for you just a few of the things on my desk right now that I can see with moving anything.
Yesterday, when I was at my parents’ house, I went in the laundry room to see if anything needed to be washed. The bin above the washer caught my eye. Usually, this was where cleaning rags were kept, but lately other things have been showing up there. The kitchen towels, which used to be kept in a drawer, are almost always in this bin these days. But yesterday, there was even more.
As I was taking all these things out and shaking my head over them, I thought about my desk at home. Any sane, normal person could start pulling things off my desk and saying, “Where did this come from? Why is this here?”
I think the difference is — and this is an important distinction for those of us who wonder if the same thing is happening to us — that this is a fairly new behavior for my mother. When I was in 3rd grade my desk was such a disaster that my teacher, Miss Bliss, dumped it out in the middle of class to my horror and embarrassment. It made an impression on me, but it didn’t fix the problem. My desk in college was cluttered, and my desks in my homes have been cluttered.
And the really weird thing is, I usually know where things are. I know right where to find a paper clip on my desk because I watched the box spill. I just haven’t picked them all up yet. I know there is a check I have to give Bud to sign. It’s in the pile to my left, either underneath or on top of the two library books that don’t have to be returned for two weeks.
My mother has always washed and saved zip-loc bags. That doesn’t worry me. It’s the fact that she no longer puts them in the same place. It’s this new disorganization that concerns me and reminds me that she is no longer in full possession of her faculties. If the person who owns that pretty little blue bowl ever shows up looking for it, I wouldn’t know where to start looking. In the workshop? In the bathroom?
My mother no longer understands where things go. It makes life hard for my father.
Maybe if I get Alzheimer’s, I’ll get neater. My desk will be organized. My husband and children will scratch their heads in wonder because it will look tidy. But I won’t know where anything is.