The Gift That Keeps Giving

I did a deliciously thoughtful thing for my mother, and yet she somehow doesn't appreciate my good will. So. Typical.

What I have done is give her the gift of sanity. Yes, sure, I had to lead her through the jungles of lunacy in order to get to the isle of enlightenment, but I was prepared to go the extra mile for her because I am a wonderful person. Does she appreciate it? No. Here's the low-down:

I dropped the kids off at my mom's to "grab a quick Christmas gift," but then I stole two whole hours to go shopping last week. All. By. My. Self. I didn't even really "Christmas shop." I shopped for me. It was the first time I had been truly alone doing something just for me in about four months--and this is including the time I spend using bathroom facilities and showering. (I know, I know, this is becoming a pattern with me. First Scott, now my mom. The difference is that with Scott, I really planned to run right out of Target in just a few minutes and I was Christmas shopping for others, so it didn't really count. In contrast, what I did to my mother? Premeditated.)

A word about my mother: She is a dear woman, and I love her very much, but she has a slight tendency to drift toward the dramatic--and by "slight" I mean that she loses it completely and frequently takes to her bed weakly calling for valium. Tragically, this trait has worked its way into my own DNA. However, no one listens to me. They just let me lie there...quivering. Yet, this disregard has taught me a valuable lesson about dramatics: If no one pays the slightest bit of attention, one tends to give up the angst. Like Pavlov's dogs, drama is a learned behavior. A simple habit. My mother didn't know it yet, but I was about to release her from her worst fear: babysitting. See, while my mom enjoys telling others that she "adores her grandchildren" and is happy to "watch the little darlings at any time," the truth is that she always calls me with some horrible emergency necessitating my speedy return within an hour of dropping off the boys at her house. So, for the holidays, I got my mother something special: Immersion Therapy. Nothing says Christmas like curing a loved one of her neurosis, am I right?

Before you judge me, please allow me to plead my case:

Proof #1: Scott and I tried to go on a date in July. We'd just received the appetizer when my cell phone rang. "Josh has a stuffy nose. He feels warm, too. It could be that SARS disease. You better come get him." (Mom, kids are warm when you wrap them in four blankets during the height of summer. And the stuffy nose? Allergies.)

Proof #2: Scott and I tried to go to a grown-up movie together in August. We were in line to purchase tickets when his cell jittered: "Noah is crying! There might be something wrong. His cry sounds funny. You'd better come right away." (He was sleeping peacefully when we got there fifteen minutes later. Mom, babies sometimes cry before they fall asleep. It's what babies do when they aren't eating, pooping, or sleeping.)

Proof #3: Scott and I tried to go to a party at a friend's house in September. Scott's phone rang just as we got to the party. "We're at the emergency room! Come quickly! Josh fell!" (He'd fallen when getting off the bottom of the slide at the park and had a bloody nose. We rushed to the hospital just in time to see the emergency room nurses hand my mom a kleenex and a lollipop while Josh calmly applied pressure to his own nose.)

Thus, you can see that she needed the immersion therapy. For her own good. (Plus, there was a sale at DSW. Now, I ask you, who wouldn't give her mother the gift of freedom from fear while at the same time purchasing Frye boots at half off??)

So, off I went to shop shoes with my cell phone turned off.

The time was well spent. For example, I found that Frye boots run about a size large. (In case you are stuck with a pair of Frye's in a 7 1/2 due to purchasing your true size, just send them my way.) At the end of 90 minutes, I turned on my phone. And...

...Mom had called me at least forty times-- complaining of headaches, loss of sight, and - finally- diarrhea. Her own, not the boys'. Each message sounded more terrifying. One was simply a recording of her moaning into the receiver. I checked my watch: I still had time for Starbucks.

I sipped at my latte' and thumbed through a copy of A Tale of Two Cities, the next novel I will be teaching. "It was the best of times (for Trish); It was the worst of times (for Trish's mom)." I nibbled on a scone. I people watched. Then, at the end of two hours, I headed to mom's.

The boys were playing happily on the floor while my mother slumped in a chair, breathing shallowly. Her eye lids fluttered and her lips quivered as she gave me a detailed account of "food poisoning" resulting from a "tainted salad." With nary a blink, I asked if the boys had been good. She coughed and clutched at her stomach dramatically, then nodded weakly before mopping her brow and asking whether heart attacks could result from loss of fluids. I slipped the boys into their jackets and shoes while considering her question. "Well, you might want to drink a little water, just in case," I smiled sweetly.

The next day she called with more details of her poisoning. I listened mutely, then changed the subject. Every time she mentioned abdominal spasms, I brought up something new to talk about.

Guess who watched my children for THREE HOURS yesterday while Scott and I went to dinner and returned some gifts? My mom. And she didn't call even once.

Okay, so it's not that she doesn't appreciate what I have done for her; it's that she isn't 100% aware of my involvement in her gradual return to the land of the level-headed. Oh well. Think of me as the Secret Santa for the Sanity Challenged.

Next week, I'm trying for FOUR HOURS!