Tired Mom Diary – Chapter 10 – The Last Person Who Needs Me
My mother called on Monday.
“Darling, do you have a minute?”
I was at work.
I had eleven emails open, a coffee I’d already reheated twice, and a meeting in six minutes.
“Of course.”
The biggest lie in the English language.
She needed help with some paperwork.
“Didn’t you do this last month?”
“That was different paperwork.”
“What kind is this?”
“The important kind.”
Excellent. Very specific.
Tuesday, I went over after work.
Mom had prepared everything.
By everything, I mean seven envelopes, three expired coupons, her passport, and a receipt from 2019.
“Where’s the actual form?”
“In a safe place.”
Again.
My mother has so many safe places I’m surprised she hasn’t opened a bank.
We found it under a cookbook.
She said she’d put it there so she wouldn’t forget.
I asked what the cookbook had to do with the form.
She said, “Nothing.”
Fair enough.
We spent forty minutes filling everything out.
Then she asked me to check her phone.
“Something’s wrong with it.”
“What?”
“It keeps making noises.”
I looked.
Twenty-seven notifications.
Six missed calls.
Forty-three unread messages.
Her ringtone was set to a sound resembling a fire alarm.
“Mom, why don’t you answer your phone?”
“I don’t like being disturbed.”
I stared at her.
I wanted to be her when I grew up.
At some point, she asked if I was eating enough.
I was holding a half-eaten granola bar.
“Yes.”
“You look tired.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you sleeping?”
“Sometimes.”
“You should rest more.”
Wonderful idea.
I’ll put it between laundry and finding everyone’s shoes.
She handed me a container of leftovers.
“Take this home. You look thin.”
Five minutes ago I looked tired.
Now apparently I was starving.
My mother is a very efficient woman.
She can give you three insecurities in one visit.
Wednesday morning, I found a grey hair.
Not on my head.
Somewhere much more personal.
I stood in the bathroom staring at it.
Forty-six years old.
A child in Grade 1.
A mother who needs help with paperwork.
And now this.
I googled whether it was normal.
Google said yes.
Google has become extremely comfortable disappointing me.
Thursday, my mother-in-law texted.
Any ideas for Christmas? I don’t know what Ben would like.
I stared at the message.
Ben’s family.
Ben’s department.
We’d agreed.
I forwarded it to him.
He replied:
I’ll handle it.
Beautiful.
I put my phone down.
Four minutes later, I picked it up.
Had he answered her?
Would she think I was ignoring her?
Did she know we had departments now?
I considered sending her an organizational chart.
Friday was Black Friday.
I wasn’t shopping.
I was just looking.
That’s how all financial mistakes begin.
A gift popped up.
Forty percent off.
Perfect for Ben’s mother.
I knew she’d love it.
I knew Ben wouldn’t think of it.
I knew it wasn’t my responsibility.
I bought it.
Then I sat there looking at the confirmation email.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR ORDER!
You’re welcome, apparently.
THINGS I AM NOW RESPONSIBLE FOR
My daughter’s childhood.
My mother’s paperwork.
Remembering which side of the family hates cinnamon.
Explaining technology to a woman who once taught me how to use a telephone.
My own increasingly suspicious body.
THINGS I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR
My mother-in-law’s Christmas present.
Which is why there’s one arriving Tuesday.
Saturday morning, Ben was making coffee.
“Mom asked what I wanted for Christmas,” he said.
“I know.”
“I told her.”
“Good.”
“She’s sorted.”
“Great.”
He looked at me.
“Why do you sound weird?”
“I don’t.”
He shrugged.
Went back to the coffee.
I opened my email.
YOUR ORDER HAS SHIPPED.
I closed it.
Ben put my cup in front of me.
“Everything okay?”
“Yep.”
He kissed my head.
I took a sip.
Somewhere in a warehouse, a Christmas present was travelling toward our house.
Nobody asked me to buy it.
I hadn’t even told anyone.
And I was already annoyed that nobody appreciated it.