Plantation blinds allow abundant natural light in Mom’s living area.  But after dark she feels exposed, and turns the wood slats to the shut position.  I’m sure the only voyeurs are mule deer, but I understand and agree with her desire for privacy, and her caution.  When I brought Mom’s dinner to her in her recliner one night, she said, “Close the blinds behind me, will you, dear?”  She has a wooden yard stick for precisely the purpose of pushing the slats closed, but using it requires her to stand up from her position of supine comfort.  “Well, that’s your job, Mom,” I reacted, perhaps a little too abruptly.  I have encouraged her to keep up her strength and independence by doing as much for herself as she can.  “Oh, alright, dear,” she responded with a tinge of chagrin.  “I’m just being lazy.”  All the more reason for me not to have immediately acquiesced.  The next day, when I came home from work and sat down, she said, “Get the mail for me, will you, dear?”  The mailman hadn’t come when she went out for the New York Times.  I reminded her that her walk to the mailbox is pretty much her only exercise, and I was sure she could get the mail, there being no snow or ice or rain.  “Oh, alright, dear,” again the subtle rebuke.  “I’m just being lazy.”  And on a Friday morning that I worked from home, she called to me in the kitchen, “Get the newspaper for me, will you, dear?”  I stared hard at her and did not speak.  “Normally I would get it, but you’re here,” she explained.  Precisely, I thought piously through my stare: This is something you can do.  “Oh, alright, dear.  Never mind.  I’ll get it.  I’m just being lazy.”  I am not about to be put to work in compensation for another’s laziness.  But I suspect the issue isn’t so much laziness as it is the comfort of being helped and cared for and even pampered when one is 85 and always tired and life is lonely and every chore seems to take so much energy.