Sep 30 2010
What Is My Mother Doing?
Every child begins asking the question “What is my mother doing?” at a young age. At first, the emphasis of the sentence is on the “What,” and the child pursues their mother relentlessly to discover the answer. This is especially true when the child is two years old and his mother is in the bathroom.
Eventually, the emphasis moves to the “My Mother” part of the question. When older children, especially teenagers, ask this question, they may combine the emphasized phrase with an eye roll or a snarl for dramatic effect. We Manrys are currently living through this “My Mother” emphasis.
As the child reaches adulthood, the emphasis lands on the “Doing” section of the question for it often is a mystery. Admittedly, I reside in this emphasis with my own mother.
When Mom comes to visit, I always know she has arrived, because piles of stuff appear everywhere. They are haphazard and scattered about and only she sees their pattern and function. It is also essential when she arrives, that she wakes up early and makes noise. Clanging pans, brewing coffee, and opening and closing doors are essential ingredients to each visit.
It is one of those odd moments when you suddenly realize that what annoys you is absent and you really wish that it would return so it could annoy you again.
“I’m worried about Mom,” I told Marie. “She is so tired and quiet and sad.” “She wasn’t like this when we went to the reunion.”
Marie told me that it was very hard for Mom to leave Dad at the hospital and come to the wedding without him.
During the Friday travel day and the first dinner with her siblings, Mom was just not herself.
The next morning, I took action and decided if Mom wouldn’t be Mom, I would be Mom. I woke up early to go running and in my search for gear, I unzipped and zipped my suitcase four times. I banged some dishes around and I let the bathroom door slam.
Marie was lying in bed irritated and thinking, “What is my sister doing?”
I left for the run, prayed while I ran, and enjoyed the cool air of the North.
I returned re-energized and found Mom out in front of the cabin, drinking tea with two Irishmen.
“What is my mother doing?” I thought with a sigh of relief.
Two of the grooms pals from work had gotten lost on their way north from New York City. By the time they arrived at the resort in the middle of the night, the front office was closed up, so they slept the night in their car.
When the sun rose, they saw Mom sitting out in front of the cabin drinking a cup of coffee. They came over and asked for a cuppa. Mom hauled out the empty cooler for a table, made them both a cup of tea and set out a plate of cookies.
Order or disorder had returned, however you look at it, and I laughed in gratitude.
On the day of the wedding, I would observe Mom return from the hairdresser with a ridiculous hairdo of Big Hair, chase down the coffee girl at the reception, and dance along in a Conga line.
With gratitude in my heart, I asked myself each time “What is my mother doing?”