A mother’s work is never done.
Even when her kids are (gasp!) 44 and 46.
I just emailed my mom her 2012 taxes checklist.
Of course the checklist is related to our taxes. Not hers.
In addition, she has received requests to:
- Compile much-needed succor for teenage skin and mail immediately (oh, the wonder of teen years…too bad acne is a part of them).
- Review a long inventory list of shipments that she will soon be receiving, along with notes on which items need to be packed and shipped to Istanbul, which items need to be put on hold to be shipped later to NY, and which items should be held at her house awaiting our annual summer visit.
- Transport family member from point A to point B (and then from C to D and X to Y and and and…you get the picture).
- Swap vehicles and take daughter’s car to be serviced at the mechanic’s.
- Make note on calendar when daughter’s CD becomes due so that she – on behalf of daughter, armed with the POA that was thrust upon her – can cash out and avoid the automatic rollover (given the paltry interest one receives…but I digress).
- Book doctor’s appointments (teeth, eyes, feet, skin, and other areas I won’t mention)
- Drop cheques off at various local vendors for this, that, and the other expense
- etc. (or, rather, ETC. Because the above list? It’s incomplete. By A LOT)
And all that was just in the last 24 hours.
If we would expand that time horizon a smidgen, the list would include many other items, not the least important among them the request to listen to our woes – minute or otherwise – at any hour of the day or night, listening with appropriate, sympathetic responses, without judgment, and without making any comment that could elicit an “Oh, mom!” response.
(Actually, I am not even sure we request her to listen…more accurately, I think we just open our mouths and spew.)
Oh. And to fix a favorite dish (no one, but no one can fry up eggs and bacon like mom…something that the grandkids have caught on to, as well…not to mention corn bread…or waffles…or a bean concoction that has even our youngest enjoying a combination of foods that, if prepared by any other hand, would certainly initiate a gagging response).
And none of this includes the infinite services and care provided over the years. We won’t even start on nursing (no matter how loving and attentive a spouse, there are certain bodily eruptions that only a mom is immune to) or babysitting (who else but a grandma would recieve so enthusiastically a squalling infant with projectile bowel movements?).
In other words, no matter how old we kids get, we still expect our moms to be consultant, secretary, adviser, driver, nurse, therapist, banker, babysitter, and cheerleader.
Just to name a few.
In another word: a Mom.
So, Mom, as you scan in one more page out of the hundreds that you have scanned and emailed me; as you work down the tax checklist and share in the insanity which is our annual tax reporting; as you divide, pack, mail and track all of our packages more efficiently than the UPS; as you drive the car in to be serviced…and all the other things that I won’t mention but that you do with such love and generosity, just know this:
As moms of teenage boys, our time is coming.
And, of course:
THANK YOU. You ARE the best.