Chris is out of town for a few days (a completely different blog post altogether), so my Mom came to town to "help" me out while he's gone. Don't get me wrong -- I mean no disrespect when I include the quotes around "help." I adore my Mother. Adore her wit, her humor, her beauty, her larger-than-life personality, her warm heart.
But her health isn't so good.
And the helping? Well, let's just say that she helps us smile. And she helps with homework. But the driving and running and general physical labor that comes with 4 kids? Not her current forte.
Life has been tough on my Mom. After working 3 jobs her entire adult life to support the three of us on her own, she was diagnosed with MS. Then diabetes. Then heart disease. And she's in need of hip surgery, but can't go under the knife until she's been on her heart medication for a full year. And then there's the smoking.
As I've mentioned before, life at the Willis abode moves pretty quickly. My Mom? Not so quick.
She did, however, manage to fall unexpectedly to her feeble, 69-year-old knees -- directly onto my cold, concrete garage floor.
While she was going out for a smoke.
I know her legs give out because of the MS. I KNOW. But she wouldn't have been in the garage if her Merit Ultra Lights hadn't been calling her name.
There are three things my Mom would crawl -- on chapped and bloody lips -- across broken glass for:
1. Her grandchildren
2. A Keoke coffee
3. A cigarette
And due to Vice Number Three, my 72-year-old step-dad, Bob, and I had to lift her from the garage floor and get her back into the house.
And have I mentioned that my back is not really fashioned for lifting? Ever since that unfortunate basketball incident in college when my sacroiliac joint decided to completely dislodge, that spine of mine has been a bit unreliable. Fortunately, my brilliant cousin, Rick, was able to grant me the gift of walking again. But when I hobbled down the aisle as a Vicodin-fueled bridesmaid in Chris and Amy's wedding, it was still a bit iffy.
But I digress.
When Mom and Bob come to visit, they inevitably bring their dog, Odie. During this particular stay, he dragged his little Pomerian ass all over Mary Claire's carpet, leaving a brown and unsavory reminder of his obvious itch. (Ask Mary Claire to demonstrate -- she'll happily show you exactly how it happened.)
"He didn't mean it," my Mom argued. "His anal glands just need attention sometimes."
Umm. I'm not even sure where to begin with that one.
Do I address the fact that my Mom is actually defending her dog's need to smear poop all over my carpet?
Or should I focus instead on the notion that my Mom and I were actually having a discussion about canine anal glands?
Really? This is definitely a lose-lose prospect.
My Mom has always been a wee bit spicy, a tad sarcastic, a smidgen argumentative. But for every year she ticks off the calendar, that combativeness becomes more pronounced. Many seemingly benign statements become unexpected quibbles.
For example...
ME: I need to find a babysitter for St. Patrick's Day. One who can drive the kids to and from their practices. I'm going to make a couple of phone calls.
MOM: Oh, I get it. Now that I can't drive, I've become useless to you, huh?
Whaaaaaa?
On the last evening of her stay, my Mom asked if I thought she and Bob were "slipping."
And that, my friends, is not a conversation that ever truly ends well.
I think they're both showing some signs of aging. I think they're both a bit forgetful. I think they both become easily confused at times. That's normal for their ages, right? Do I worry about them? Yes. Am I going to tell her that? Absolutely not.
Oh, Sis. Former beauty queen. Current crazy-maker.
Forever beloved.
No matter how many times she makes me sigh.
