I realize now that my mom didn't tell me everything. I don't mean she kept secrets per se, but we lived almost 3 hours away, and I had kids, then a job, then both, etc. I couldn't have helped her with everything, and would just have felt bad.

I really only see that clearly now that I notice myself not telling my kids everything. Sure, they know the basics, they've heard the spoon story (a few times, no doubt), they understand more or less what I can or can't do.

I don't tell them that sometimes I cry when it's time (or past time) to do certain chores because yes, I am the one who has to do it, and it's so hard. I don't tell them that I made a trip to the basement to find something because one of them would be here in the afternoon...and then didn't show up, and I made ANOTHER trip to the basement to put it back.

I don't tell them that when they (of necessity) change their arrival times at the last minute, it mucks up my opportunity to get a nap. I don't tell them that if they spring a surprise visit on us the day after I went grocery shopping, I won't really feel up to entertaining. Or being entertained.

They do the best they can with their own set of problems, and I'm NOT complaining. It is what it is. But wow, when I look back and realize that Mom (who had heart disease) and Dad (who had MS and COPD) had spoon issues also...