Mommy
Not me. Mine.
A couple of weeks ago, in the middle of hauling all the old cabinets out, and putting the new ones in (after staining, sanding, prepping, steel wooling, and waxing, and staining some more), I feel ill. Really on my back sick. High fever, can’t get out of bed, feel like poo poo sick. I held on for the first 12-18 hours, just holding my moaning to a dull roar and pretending I could still contribute in our house of complete upheaval and 4 children, and 4 adults, and no working kitchen, but by the second morning, I was out.
At some point mid-morning, as if I were hallucinating, a vision floated through my door. A vision with dark hair, and Sherwin Williams ebony stained hands, bringing fresh iced tea, with just the right amount of ice, a biscuit, and a voice from heaven. Shoogie (a sort of nick name on Sugar), what can I get you, here, let me take your temperature. My Mommy. In milliseconds, I was transported. Snug. Unburdened. At peace. I knew I would live. My duties faded away in a way, I think, only your Mommy can make them fade. I could hang up my own Mommy hat for a few hours. The Grand Dame was on the premises, and In Charge.
DO NOT misconstrue my feelings for the Colonel’s ability to do the care-taking. He really can. And very well. He is more empathetic and sensitive to my needs than most women could ever claim about their own husbands. He’s tender. But. And forgive me here, dear. He is a man. Who does not have 40 some odd years in the trenches of care-taking. And, although he is the one I want to spend the rest of the days of my life with, in a sick pinch, there’s just no one like my Mom. And then there’s the teeny eeny tendency he has to get overwhelmed when alone with the children for extended periods of time. Sorry, hon. But to be fair, not snapping after hours of being with them takes lots of time and practice. And a helmet of Lexapro. And maybe a shield of bevarage. Of the alchoholic variety. But here again, not for my Mom. She goes in armor-less. And is still smiling when the carnage has piled up all around her.
In all her years of front line care-taking combat, she has figured out how to do all mentioned above, and refinish the cabinets. And run up and down the stairs to keep a sick me on a 2.5 hour cycle of fresh iced tea, with the right amount of ice and in the right sized glass (tall for fever and flu, short for nausea), and medicine. And a hand on my forehead. And that look that just says, I’d be sick for you if I could. And make me her mashed potatoes when I say its the only thing I think I can eat. And feed herself, my Dad, and my husband. Not from the pizza place. And cycle all my laundry, change the sheets, clean the bathroom, vacuum the kitchen, and in this last case, help the Colonel take Private Three to the ER for a case of dehydration due to constant yarfing. And, reorganize all my cabinet contents into the new cabinets. Given that the Colonel, as wonderful as he is, and he is, is only thrown into these circumstances a couple of times a year, it is only expected that his chops wouldn’t be quite up to a mother’s of 40 years. Hell, I can’t do what my mother does. It wears me out just to watch her go.
It’s the little things, really. The little things that can get under a sick Mom’s skin. Like knowing even though all the babies will be loved and taken care of, they probably aren’t going to get a balanced meal complete with veggies while you’re down and out, drooling in a fevered sweat on your pillow. In fact, it’s much more likely that they will have delivered pizza. Two nights in a row. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m grateful to stay in bed. But as I lie up there, it crosses my mind. Maybe it shouldn’t. But it does. And although the Colonel’s got loving on the kids all down and all that, he is not exactly practiced in doing that and keeping the rest of the house running, um, smoothly. And really. I don’t fault him. It’s taken my a decade to figure out how to take care of and feed and tend to and teach 3 children, and keep the laundry running, and the kitchen clean, and the towels cycled, and the toilet paper stocked. And look good while I’m doing it, to boot. But aaahhh, see? This is where my Mom comes in.
So. When the battle is raging all around, and I fall on the field of duty, in a weird sort of way, it’s like Aslan appearing. We will not be defeated. Peace will reign. OK. Maybe that’s a little over the top. But I can tell you this. It is good to see my Mommy come in the door when I can’t lift my head off the pillow. I don’t know how she does it, but I’m damn glad she does.
