Mother’s Day has come and gone. It wasn’t really that big a deal. The only thing that bugs me now is when people insist on wishing—and repeating over and over—her a Happy Mother’s Day. People: She does not know it’s Mother’s Day. She doesn’t care. I don’t care anymore. She does not understand you. She is more concerned about the priest. NOT YOU. Not your attempt to treat her like a normal, healthy person. Please stop imposing YOUR need to be comfortable on her. On us.

We went to church. A typical Sunday. She spit on the floor—at one point, I actually caught her spit before she was able to hack another one. Oh mom. Those moments are when I really feel like her parental unit—able to react before she does something inappropriate or if she simply needs something. It doesn’t really bother me anymore.

Maybe I’m just numb to things…maybe I just don’t care because it is what it is and there’s not a thing I can do about it.

TMI or “Too Much Information,” doesn’t carry much weight in my world. My mom touches herself when she has to go to the bathroom like a child…. it’s my cue to hurry her off to the loo before she has an accident. She tells me when she has to poop…. again, my cue to rush her of bathroom. She uses childish words like, “caca.”

It’s funny, but not really.

She throws her food on the floor to feed the begging cat. I ask her to eat her own food and to please not share with the fat cat. She ignores me and laughs. She misbehaves. She laughs at her own reflection, and then proceeds to cry like a little girl. I ask, “what’s so funny? Are you funny? You’re not that funny.”

I don’t understand TMI. On my personal Facebook page the other day, I posted something about pooping—most people responded with, “TMI.” Huh? TMI?

My mother’s life is made up of a random series of TMI moments strung together.

TMI?  Are YOU uncomfortable? Why are YOU uncomfortable? What does it feel like?

I will not stop her from telling me when she has to go “caca”—what? The woman has to take a poop and I don’t need an accident. She spits. Fine. She pees with the door open—even in public (yes, I hold the door closed). Whatever.

TMI? Please. With this disease, there’s no such thing as TMI.