I don’t think my mom reads my blog anymore (I’m not sure if I should be offended), so I think it’s pretty safe to write a post telling some stories about her. Loyalty, apparently, is an iffy trait in my family.
As you know, my mom suffers from Pulmonary Fibrosis. It’s a terrible disease with no cure, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Yet my poor, non-smoking, stay-at-home mom who I love and admire more than anything somehow got it, and so, we are taking it one day at a time. (Just a little sucking up, in case she decides to read this. Love you, Mom!)
She moved in with us about a year ago, and we have been going through the slow process of cleaning out her house and changing the flooring in order to sell it. Other than those things and helping her balance her checkbook, helping her log into her Facebook account, setting her tv to the proper input daily, and searching for the things that she can’t locate, we have really enjoyed having her with us. The boys adore her, even when she can’t hear what they are saying, so she just smiles at them and hopes that they don’t notice.
They’re teenagers. OF COURSE, they notice, but they love her, so they wouldn’t dare mention it. Now if it was me? They would laugh and say, “You have no idea what I just said, do you?” They practically light up when they get to point out a mom faux pas. Every chance they get.
Anyway, before Thanksgiving, my mom had a pretty bad time with her disease, so I drug her to the doctor, who pretty quickly told me to take her to the hospital. Without passing GO or spending anytime on Boardwalk. Mom said, “Can we go through a drive-thru to get a cup of coffee?” The doctor looked at me and said, “Do I need to call an ambulance or can I trust you to drive her straight there?” Got it. Straight there. I will completely ignore her death glare.
After we got to the hospital and she was examined in the triage area, she said to me, “I don’t know why we are here. My oxygen is at 120.”
Me: No, Mom, that’s impossible. Your oxygen is either 100% or less than that. It can’t be more.
Mom: That’s what the little finger thing said it was!
Me: I’m pretty sure that was your pulse. I’m guessing your oxygen is in the 70s because you’ve been a little confused.
Mom: Well, I haven’t had my coffee yet.
Yep, that’s totally it. It couldn’t possibly be oxygen deprivation making you confused.
After a short while, they took us back to an ER room. I made a bee-line for the coffee pot and brought her the World’s Smallest Styrofoam Cup of coffee. She mocked the cup, but I knew that she was thrilled. I handed her the teeny-tiny cup and stood horrified as I watched the coffee slosh and spill out of the cup in her shaking hands. I grabbed it before she required relocation to a burn unit. She was less-than-thrilled. I promised to give it back when it cooled or when I could find a straw.
My status as a good daughter comes and goes.
Shortly before her hospital visit, I was the Good Daughter, when I took her to buy a new car. I got the hint that she wanted a new car when she told me about her “adventurous day,” which included having her car towed from a dealership to a mechanic. Her car had broken down while she was looking in the car windows of the new cars on the lot. Her hints are so subtle.
Her old car was a 2001 model with only 40,000 miles on it. I know. It makes me think that the Loch Ness Monster, Big Foot, and unicorns really do exist because a 13-year-old vehicle with that low of miles seems like a mythical creature to me. Our hope was that she would drive her unicorn around until she could no longer drive, which probably should have been a few weeks or months ago. Just yesterday when she was taking my niece to pre-school, she had a little trouble. She said, “E, something is wrong with my new car. It won’t start. I just can’t figure it out!”
Little Miss E at the ripe age of THREE: “Ummmm….weeeelllll…you might want to turn it on, Gram.”
Even the 3-year-old knew what was wrong. You have to START the car to make it GO.
Luckily that was the only problem, or I would have had to hear about what a lemon she bought for the hundredth time. Over the week of Thanksgiving, she and my sister took it out for a spin, which is code for shopping, and ran over something. When I spotted the completely flat tire (and scratched hub cap) the next morning while leaving for work, she said, “Your sister did mention that it was pulling to the right.” AND YET, NO ONE CHECKED IT.
Lover Boy and I had a devil of a time getting the tire off of the car. I even called the dealership for some suggestions. This dude was a mind reader because how else would he have known to say the words that I wanted to hear? “Kick it a few times.” With pleasure! Lo and behold, I kicked it, and it budged. I think I heard angels singing, until Mom interrupted them with, “See, I told you it was a lemon.”
No, it’s not a lemon. It got stuck because you drove around town on a flat tire!!!
Is what I wanted to say. But I love my mom, so I held it in.
Until I had time to blog about it. I guess kids enjoy a mom faux pas no matter how old they get. I still love you, Mom!