Noah loved his grandmother.
That was one of the reasons I tried so hard to keep things peaceful.
He liked having Diane in the house.
He followed her around when she was in a good mood, asked her questions, and brought her toys he thought she might enjoy.
She could make him laugh without trying very hard.
And when she wanted to, she could be wonderfully patient with him.
I didn't want my frustration over a kitchen habit to affect their relationship.
But I also couldn't ignore what happened when she treated his food the same way she treated hers.
It was an ordinary afternoon.
Noah was sitting at the kitchen table with a little container of yogurt in front of him.
I'd given it to him as a snack while I finished something nearby.
Diane sat across from him.
She watched him eat for a moment, then leaned forward.
"Can Grandma have a taste?"
Noah looked at her.
He was perfectly willing to share things with her.
He liked sharing.
Diane took the spoon from his hand and scooped up some yogurt.
Then she put the spoon into her mouth.
I didn't have time to stop her.
She took the bite, smiled at Noah, and lowered the spoon back into his container.
I saw it happen.
So did Noah.
He looked at the yogurt, then at his grandmother.
I stepped toward the table.
"Diane, please don't do that."
She turned to me with the spoon still in her hand.
"What now?"
"Please don't use the spoon from your mouth in Noah's food."
She looked down at the container.
Then she looked at me.
"I only had a little taste."
"That's not the point."
She seemed genuinely irritated that I was continuing the conversation.
"He's my grandson."
"I know he is."
"Then what's the problem with sharing a bite?"
I took a breath.
I was trying very hard not to sound angry in front of Noah.
"It's not about sharing. It's about using a clean spoon."
Diane gave a dismissive wave.
"Oh, honestly."
She put the spoon down beside the container.
I picked it up and moved the yogurt away from the edge of the table.
Noah watched me.
I could feel him trying to work out why the adults were suddenly tense.
That bothered me more than anything Diane had said.
I didn't want him to think he'd done something wrong.
I crouched beside him.
"You're fine, sweetheart. I'll get you another one."
He nodded.
I took the yogurt away and gave him a fresh portion with a clean spoon.
It was a small thing.
Still, I felt awful about having to do it.
Diane sat back in her chair.
"You know, you're going to make that child afraid of everything."
I looked at her.
"I'm not trying to make him afraid of anything."
"Kids need to be exposed to germs."
I kept my voice low.
"There's a difference between ordinary life and putting your saliva in somebody else's food."
She shook her head.
"You worry too much."
I didn't answer.
There was no useful response left to give.
I'd explained what I wanted.
I'd offered a simple alternative.
I'd even tried to make it easier by getting Noah another yogurt rather than continuing the argument.
Nothing changed her mind.
She had decided that my request was ridiculous.
And once Diane decided that, no explanation seemed capable of moving her.
I cleaned up the table.
She went back to whatever she'd been doing before the snack.
The afternoon continued.
But something in me had shifted.
Until then, I'd treated the problem as an annoying habit between two adults.
I could choose to avoid the dishes she'd touched.
I could use a different serving spoon.
I could put the leftovers away before she had a chance to eat from them.
Noah was different.
He was a little boy who trusted the people around him.
He didn't understand why his grandmother's behavior had become an issue, and he shouldn't have had to.
I wasn't willing to keep making excuses for something that involved him.
That evening, I told Mark exactly what had happened.
He was sitting beside me when I brought it up.
I watched his face change as I described Diane taking Noah's spoon, tasting the yogurt, and putting it back.
"She did that?"
"Yes."
"With his food?"
"Yes, Mark."
He looked toward the kitchen.
For a moment, he didn't say anything.
Then he rubbed his forehead.
"Mom."
It was a quiet word, almost a sigh.
I knew he was imagining the conversation he'd have to have with her.
I also knew he was tired of hearing about the same problem.
But I was tired of living with it.
"I need you to take this seriously," I said.
"I am."
"Then please don't tell me she'll forget about it or that she doesn't mean anything by it. I've asked her more than once."
Mark nodded.
"Okay."
"I don't want to spend the next five weeks watching what she does with every spoon in the kitchen."
"You shouldn't have to."
He sounded sincere.
I wanted to believe that meant something would change.
Mark wasn't a man who enjoyed confrontation.
He didn't like raised voices.
He didn't enjoy being caught between two people he cared about.
If someone made an unreasonable demand, his first instinct was usually to find a way around it rather than confront the person making it.
That worked in many parts of his life.
It didn't work with Diane.
She was his mother.
She knew which subjects made him uncomfortable, and she had years of practice pushing through his discomfort until he gave up.
I wasn't sure she even thought of it as pushing.
She was simply used to doing things her way.
Mark had learned to accommodate her.
I was beginning to learn that I had been doing the same thing.
The next time Diane prepared food, I stayed nearby.
I didn't want to.
I had other things to do, and I resented having to keep an eye on something as basic as a serving utensil.
Still, I watched.
When she reached for a spoon, I paid attention to whether it went into the serving dish or her mouth.
It made me feel petty.
It also made me feel trapped.
If I looked away, I worried she'd do it again.
If I watched, I felt as though I were treating her like a child.
Neither option was acceptable.
I tried another conversation.
This time, I approached her while she was putting food away.
"Diane, could we agree on one thing while you're staying here?"
She turned toward me.
"What thing?"
"If you're eating something, please take a portion onto your own plate. Don't eat from the container or use the serving spoon after you've tasted the food."
Her mouth tightened.
"You're still on about that?"
"I wouldn't keep bringing it up if it weren't happening."
She put the container down.
"I raised Mark just fine."
I hadn't questioned how she'd raised Mark.
I didn't say that, though.
"I know you did a lot for him."
"Then you should trust that I know what I'm doing."
I stood quietly for a second.
That was how she turned every practical request into a question about her worth.
If I asked her to do something differently, she heard that I thought she was incompetent.
If I explained why, she heard that I was lecturing her.
If I stopped talking, she treated my silence as proof that she'd won.
"I just want us to use clean utensils," I said.
She sighed.
"You're making this house very uncomfortable."
The words landed harder than they should have.
This was my house.
I had invited her in because she needed somewhere to stay.
I'd made room for her belongings and adjusted our routines.
I'd agreed to share the kitchen, the bathroom, and the ordinary privacy of family life.
Now I was being told that asking her to use a clean spoon was making her uncomfortable.
I felt a hot response rise in my chest.
I wanted to tell her that she could make herself comfortable by respecting the people who lived there.
Instead, I looked down at the container.
"That's not what I'm trying to do."
She picked it up again.
"Well, it feels that way."
The conversation ended there.
I went into the other room before I said something I couldn't take back.
I found Mark later and told him about it.
He listened without interrupting.
Then he went to speak with his mother.
This time, I stayed out of the conversation.
I could hear the low sound of their voices from the hallway.
Mark asked her to stop using the same spoon after tasting food.
Diane answered.
He tried again.
She spoke for longer, and I heard a short, frustrated laugh.
I couldn't make out all the words, but I recognized the rhythm.
She was explaining why she shouldn't have to change.
A few minutes later, Mark came back.
"She understands what we're asking."
I looked at him.
"Will she do it?"
He paused.
"I told her she needs to."
That wasn't quite an answer.
I wanted to press him, but I could see the tension in his face.
He'd tried to handle it.
I didn't want to punish him for his mother's refusal to listen.
So I nodded.
"Thank you."
He kissed my forehead.
"Let's just get through the next few weeks."
I wanted to agree.
Six weeks had sounded short when Diane first asked to stay.
Now, each day seemed to require a new calculation.
Which food had she touched?
Had she used the serving spoon?
Would I have to replace something before Noah ate it?
I hated that my thoughts had become so small and repetitive.
I hated that Diane could make me feel unreasonable for wanting a clean spoon.
And I hated that I was starting to dread hearing her footsteps in the kitchen.
For a while, nothing dramatic happened.
Diane continued to be Diane.
She offered opinions we hadn't asked for.
She acted offended when we didn't follow them.
She could be charming at breakfast and irritated by lunchtime.
I reminded myself that living with someone was difficult, even when you loved them.
But the spoon problem never really disappeared.
Sometimes I saw her reach for a serving utensil and felt myself tense before she'd even touched it.
Sometimes I walked into the kitchen and found a spoon resting in a dish, and I had to decide whether to ask her about it.
I didn't want to keep asking.
I didn't want to become the person who corrected everything she did.
Yet I couldn't make myself stop caring.
Then Diane got sick.
At first, it sounded like an ordinary cold.
She complained about a sore throat and a stuffy nose.
She coughed from time to time and kept tissues close at hand.
She insisted she wasn't seriously ill.
"It's nothing," she said when I asked how she was feeling.
I hoped she was right.
For two days, she moved around the house sounding congested and tired.
She blew her nose.
She coughed into tissues.
She told us she didn't need anyone fussing over her.
I tried to be considerate.
I asked if she wanted anything.
I gave her space when she wanted to rest.
I didn't want her to feel that I was holding her illness against her.
But I also became more careful about the food.
I could accept that people caught colds.
I couldn't accept the idea that she might knowingly put a spoon from her mouth back into food intended for everyone else while she was coughing and blowing her nose.
I thought that part would be obvious.
I was about to find out how wrong I was.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Told Diane Exactly Which Pot Belonged to Noah, Then Returned Ten Minutes Later to Find Her Doing the One Thing I’d Begged Her Not to Do
I Thought Six Weeks Would Be Easy Until I Found Diane Standing at My Kitchen Counter With a Spoon in Her Mouth
Part 2 of 8
