If you have been
following along on this little road trip down Parenthood Lane, you know that my
mom is extremely critical of me. She actually acts as if I couldn’t parent a
hermit crab. Okay, I will admit to losing him once, but I found him crawling
around three days later. I also have an inability to keep houseplants alive.
But I have not lost a child, well not permanently anyway.
We (as in my
precious little family) just finished a very long visit at the grandparents.
Now, before we left our own home this morning, I went through the litany of
rules I always mandate before going to grandmas: Do not talk back. Do not
fight. Say please and thank you, even if you don’t mean it. Don’t tell Grandpa
to chew with his mouth closed. In fact, don’t run, don’t jump, and don’t play.
Just sit. Quietly.
I don’t want a
phone call when I get home. Do you know what I am talking about? Does your
mother do this to you? After finally releasing the breathe I have been holding
since my little family returned to our own abode, my phone will ring. It’s my
mom. It goes something like this:
“Mom,” I say
exasperated already, “He is four.”
“He called me a
liar,” she scathes into the phone.
Oh shit, flows into
my brain, followed by, hmmmm, he must have heard me.
“I realize that,
and there is no excuse for it,” except that it’s true, I think but do not
say.
“You need to take
care of this,” she angrily responds.
“Of course
Mother,” I reply.
That angry
telephone exchange is followed by one of the most important conversations we
can have with our little echoes; don’t repeat what mommy says when she is
ranting about grandma.
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