My mother used to take her cordless phone with her when she went out for lunch. One day I finally asked why. “Well, I might need to make a phone call,” she explained. I said it was a cordless phone, not a cell phone, and that it only worked in her house. She looked at me with a completely blank expression. I tried again. She listened politely, though I’m still not entirely convinced she believed me. Her smile never reached her eyes.
Then there were the calls for technical support. Mom would phone because she couldn’t get the television to work, and I would patiently walk her through using the remote. Press the button at the top. Nothing. The red button. I don’t have a red button. Twenty minutes later, it finally occurred to me to ask what she was holding. Her cell phone.
We laughed about these things, and they were funny. They still are. But something else was happening that neither of us wanted to acknowledge. Slowly, I was becoming the person who worried about my mother, checked on things, and occasionally told her what she should or shouldn’t do. In other words, I was parenting my parent, though I’m quite sure she would have objected to that job description.
This stage of life brings plenty of drama and absolutely no instructions. No pre-retirement class, no baby shower, and, disappointingly, no one arrives with useful equipment. You just wake up one day and realize you are telling the woman who once taught you to cross the street that she might not be safe driving at night.
The Driving Dilemma
Few conversations test family diplomacy quite like asking a parent whether they should still be driving, and I sometimes wish my MBA program offered a course on it. They will tell you they are excellent drivers. The garbage cans, curbs, garage door and passenger-side mirror may tell a slightly different story.
Driving means independence: spontaneous trips to the grocery store, visits with friends, appointments, and the simple freedom to go somewhere without asking anyone. I learned that there is a difference between what makes me nervous or impatient and what is actually unsafe. Getting lost in a familiar neighbourhood, repeatedly hitting things, missing signals, or becoming confused behind the wheel are very different.
Canadian Automobile Association (CAA) offers a useful senior driving resource and assessment toolkit that can help older drivers and their families assess driving ability, changing skills, and ways to adapt. I like the idea of introducing objective information into the discussion. It may go over better than announcing that the children have held a meeting and voted Mom or Dad off the highway.
Technology: Funny Until It Wasn’t
Technology gave my mother and I some of our funniest moments. The cordless phone going to lunch and the cell phone masquerading as the television remote were classics. Often, my first instinct was to grab the device causing the problem and fix it myself. That solved the problem quickly, but it didn’t help her the next time. Writing down a few steps, simplifying them, and repeating them, sometimes many times, worked better. A checklist taped beside the television could save both of us a lot of grief.
Confusion about phones, email, texting and social media could leave her vulnerable to fraud, too. Today’s scams are sophisticated enough that none of us should be too smug about spotting them. I tried to establish a simple habit with Mom: if something looks strange, urgent, frightening or too good to be true, stop and check with someone before clicking, paying or sharing information. I wanted Mom to enjoy technology and stay connected, not be afraid of it. The trick was adding a few guardrails without wrapping the entire Internet in yellow caution tape.
The Great Grocery Store Standoff
I am a bit of a health nut, which made counselling my mother about nutrition particularly ironic, since I come by it honestly. Mom was the original health-food nut. We called her the wheat-germ fanatic. Wheat germ came onto the scene in the 70s, and as far as Mom was concerned, there was no food that couldn’t be improved with a generous helping. There were four of us kids, and we tolerated a lot in the name of good health, but we finally drew the line when the spaghetti sauce became so chewy from wheat germ that we couldn’t eat it.
Then there was powdered milk. We didn’t always have a blender, so it didn’t mix particularly well. We called it clumpy milk. Fast-forward a few decades, and there I was, the daughter of the wheat germ fanatic, lecturing my mother on fruits, vegetables, protein and regular meals.
She had her own standards too. Anyone caught buttering bread in her kitchen got a quick lesson in technique, right to the crust, she would say, watching closely until you got every corner.
Mom understood healthy eating just fine. What had changed was her ability to manage it, and keeping food safe had become harder. Her freezer became so full that she eventually secured the door with bungee cords. Bungee cords have many legitimate uses, but appliance repair isn’t one of them. The door sometimes didn’t close properly, and food would spoil. Mom periodically complained about what she called her “morning flu,” and I began to wonder whether it had less to do with a virus and more to do with whatever archaeological specimen she had defrosted for dinner.
The comedy had a serious side too. Health Canada’s food-safety guidance for adults 60 and over explains that older adults may be more vulnerable to serious complications from foodborne illness and offers practical advice on storage, leftovers and safer food choices (Health Canada, 2025). It also notes that you can’t always tell whether food is safe by its look, smell or taste. Mom’s standard was somewhat simpler: “It looks fine.”
She also loved giving food away. I would leave her house carrying freezer-burned shrimp, a grey object that may once have been beef, and mystery packages from an unknown decade. Eventually, I told my brothers to stop arguing and accept everything Mom offered. Smile, say thank you, and take it home. What happened between her front door and our dinner plates was our business.
I didn’t have to win every argument. Sometimes a workaround did more than another lecture and helped Mom keep some control over her own life.
Then There Was Dad
My dad presented a different set of challenges. He had a stroke at 66 that left him with no mobility on his left side and very limited speech. His understanding was fine, but getting words out was difficult. However, there were two words he could say particularly well: “beer” and “Susie.” I’m not sure what it says about me that I made the shortlist, but I’ve always taken it as a compliment.
Communication could be frustrating for both of us because Dad knew exactly what he wanted to say, even when he couldn’t express it. He liked wearing the same clothes repeatedly, sometimes long after the stains on the front suggested it was time to change. Telling your father that he needs a clean shirt or a bath requires a particular kind of diplomacy that even graduate school does not teach.
Helping the man who once looked after you with something as personal as bathing is strange and tender in equal measure. You want to protect his dignity, but you also can’t pretend hygiene doesn’t matter. I found it worked better when I didn’t turn it into a debate. I could make it part of the day, help where he needed it, and move on. It wasn’t always graceful. Sometimes he was annoyed. Sometimes I was. We figured it out, and his toenails were trimmed.
Dad also developed a dessert philosophy I have never been able to disprove. He insisted on eating dessert first. When I suggested he might want to eat his dinner before dessert, his reasoning was simple: “Well, I can’t be sure I’ll make it to dessert, so I’m going to eat it first.” Fair enough, Dad. Have the pie.
When the Funny Stuff Stops Being Funny
This is the uncomfortable part of parenting your parents. One forgotten lunch may mean nothing. Regularly forgetting to eat is different. One confused encounter with a television remote is hilarious. Increasing confusion across several areas of daily life deserves attention. I found it more useful to look for patterns than to panic over every incident.
With Mom, we tried using checklists on the fridge and Meals on Wheels. Then I would arrive to find six or seven meals sitting uneaten in the refrigerator, starting to spoil. Getting help didn’t mean I could stop paying attention. We had solved one problem, but not necessarily the whole problem.
It helps to know you are not the only family trying to figure this out. It is easy to assume that if Mom or Dad won’t listen to our brilliant advice, we must be doing something wrong.
Our parents are still adults. They don’t suddenly become compliant just because they reach a certain age. I had to learn when to push, when to seek help, when to quietly remove the questionable shrimp, and, perhaps hardest of all, when to keep my mouth shut.
I Would Take It All Back
Both of my parents are gone now, and time has reshaped how I remember those years. There were days when I was exasperated and frustrated, sometimes to tears. I worried. We argued. I wondered why they wouldn’t listen and whether I was helping or simply making everyone miserable. Watching the people you love lose pieces of their independence is hard, and trying to help without taking over can be even harder.
Now I would give almost anything to have some of those moments back. I’d happily explain the television remote again. I’d take another package of freezer-burned shrimp without complaint. I’d negotiate another bath with Dad, let him wear the questionable shirt for one more day, and watch him eat his dessert first.
If you are in the middle of parenting your own parents, I don’t have a perfect formula for you. Pay attention when something feels different, protect their safety without forgetting their dignity, and pick the battles that really matter enough to let the rest go. And laugh with them whenever you can, because some of this really is funny, even when it is also difficult and sad.
At the time, I often thought I was dealing with problems that needed fixing. Looking back, I can see something else, too. Those frustrating, ridiculous, worrying little moments were also time spent with my mom and dad. I didn’t know how much I would miss them until there were no more remotes to explain, desserts to debate, or mystery packages to remove from the freezer.
I’d take the whole messy job back in a heartbeat. Even the clumpy milk.
Warmly,
Sue
This is Part 1. I have a Part 2 that covers what nobody wants to talk about at dinner: who gets power of attorney, how you divide the work with siblings without a family blow-up, whether Mom or Dad should stay in their own home, and what all of this does to the person doing the parenting. I promise there is less shrimp in that one.
My Book is Available for Pre-Order
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