For the past few years, I’ve been trying to explain to my mother the concept of interest.  My parents live on a very fixed income, and my mom runs the books.  During months when there is a shortfall (and there usually are), she uses her credit cards.  However, she has some money stashed away in a money market account, earning 2%.  Explaining to her that it is much better long-term to use her savigs accout when she needs money as opposed to sticking it on a credit card with 18% interest doesn’t ever seem to sink in.  She gets it, but she doesn’t change her behavior. She has a mental block with removing money from her savings because, as she say, “Eventually it will all be gone.” 

This inevitably leads to the discussion that yes, her money will eventually be “all gone”.  And when it is, it will be up to me and my siblings to put more money into that account. 

What drives me nuts is that this is the same woman who won’t go grocery shopping on a “lean” week, but will go to Kohl’s and buy my kids crap they don’t need.  She says it makes her happy, but it makes me stressed.  First, I don’t want my children expecting that everytime their grandparents show up, they have something to give them.  Secondly, my kids have more than enough. I’m forever going through the playroom and donating toys and clothes.  Thirdly, my parents really, really cannot afford it. 

My dad, at 84, bags groceries at a local store.  He makes $8/hour.  He does it to get away from my mom and to have a little bit of spending money.  However, my mom doesn’t understand what a difference that little bit of money makes every month.  It enables them to eat out, it enables them to do some home improvements.  My dad won’t be working for much longer.  Standing on his feet for 9 hour shifts isn’t good, especially when he suffers from leg cramps.  I just worry about what they will do when that extra cash isn’t around. 

The last time my mom and I had the discussion about credit cards vs cash, she got really frustrated with me and yelled at me. I probably yelled back.  It reminded me of the nights I’d drag my math homework out and sit at the kitchen table with my dad, who had the patience of a saint.  I’d get surly and angry because my brain could not, would not, grasp what everyone else seem to grasp. I’d get so frustrated with myself, I’d end up crying.  I can see it on my mom’s face.  She knows that I think she’s not being very smart, and she’s angry at me – and herself – for continuing to dig themselves into a hole out of which we will end up bailing them.