If, like most people caring for aging parents, you find yourself with the new burden of picking up prescriptions or having to inaugurate the cordless phone each visit to your parent’s new condo, then you have no idea how great you have it. If your biggest concern is making sure you switch the handicapped tag to your windshield when you take your parent out for brunch on Sundays, then I envy the simply mundane of your chore.

The last straw (and by last straw I mean the most recent brain upheaval I experienced with mom) was her seemingly immediate need for a whirlpool tub. She had done a lot of research online and her vision was unchangeable—she wanted a whirlpool tub because she’d never had one and when she was a girl she had to take baths in a metal tub on the lawn of her parent’s farm. I decided not to mention that maybe I deserved a whirlpool tub since not only do I recall having to bathe in a plastic-lined laundry basket in the basement of a creepy childhood home, but I have four children and need a break. But mom doesn’t buy her children things or “material items” any longer. She just gives checks in expensive couture greeting cards (if there is such a thing).

She new she wanted a white whirlpool and jets with varying speeds. The whirlpool store had many more decisions for mom to make. It was strange to walk through this store with a salesperson so young looking I nearly asked their bedtime and a mother so bent on making a huge luxury purchase. Here I was, the good daughter, caring for my widowed mother. While mom and I looked through a book with an array of guardrail styles and finishes I realized my mom didn’t really need me. She could drive on her own and had enough money to have everything delivered if she preferred. Decisions were made without me all the time. For instance, if my opinion had been sought there would not have been weightlifting in the park or even talk of the advantages to camera phones. She chose chrome guardrails with slip resistant handles. I suggested she get non-skid floors in her whirlpool and she laughed and said, “Well, of course—what with all the people I’ll have over to whirlpool with me—it is wise to be safe, honey.”

She is like a teenager. At times I can drum up anger over this, but that emotion quickly subsides to envy. Here my mother, with her toned arms and spandex is buying a big toy to share with her friends—something I think I might be wise to do myself. I thought I had already learned how to indulge—but once you think you know something fully—you are fully alien from it. The same can be said of purchasing a whirlpool. Mom had spent hours online comparing pricing, features, adaptability of sizes to her bathroom, etc. Once in the store, though, she had to try out each tub to be sure it was right. Our junior salesperson tried to guide mom with words, but I found my usefulness apparent as I helped mom up and over the high-topped lip of a dozen whirlpools. I let her test out the various sizes and seats alone, but found the cool of each whirlpool was inviting and soothing, even without the heated water. She fit in all the tubs since she is petite—some might say sprightly.

After imaging all the possible finishes and marbled colors of the dozens of whirlpool tubs, mom landed on her new baby—a creamy, safe whirlpool with jets of varying intensity and seats enough for two friends. I could see her longing for the newest version on the market—ceramic, clawfoot—but its weight simply would lack the needed support in her bungalow bath.

We organized the delivery of her new tub and she thanked our salesman with a kiss on the cheek when he handed her a luxury plush towel set with her new purchase. She took some pix of the whirlpool she’d purchased on her phone and sent them to her friend, Donna, who was recuperating from a bought of summer pneumonia. We left the whirlpool store and walked arm and arm to the car. I didn’t say anything but I had a sinking feeling that maybe mom invited me to help her because she knew I needed it—that I needed to know I could return the favor she’d given to me: loving care.

In the care I talked about the kids and how conferences were re-scheduled so I couldn’t make it to her active wear fitting for the photo shoot. I was trying to imagine having to cancel brunch with mom for a modeling shoot of my own and I just couldn’t conjure the image. And then, to punctuate our outing, mom’s phone with its metal jacket casing, trilled with the announcement of a new pix message. She flipped it open and held it away from her to read the message. Holding it up to me so I could see why she giggled I saw the blurry outline of Donna’s face with the text: “suits or skins?”

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