Mother, There is No Other

The good thing about Bill is that he is like a violent summer storm: Unpredictable and harsh but over in an instant.

He tanks up on the booze.
Then Estelle prepares his famed salad and some protein rich dinner that he has to eat so he can take his pills.
Food coma sets in.
Then Estelle helps him stagger up the wooden hill where he falls into bed for the night.

One down. One to go.

But this spindly little tree is not as easy to fell.

Estelle, while assisting Bill to bed and ensuring he is snoring before she leaves, offers to help my kids with their bedtime routine.

But Mom’s way of helping is as misguided and unorthodox as her every other endeavor.

Instead of making her twice-a-year trek and spending the time being the why-don’t-you-two-have-the-last-of-the-cookies-Mom-won’t be-upset-if-I-say-it-was-my-idea-a-few-extra-minutes-of-TV-with-Grandma-never-hurt-anyone type of grandparent, Estelle makes up for lost opportunities to “help” in a way that is unwelcome and harsh coming from a relative stranger. (Should that be capitalized? Relative Stranger?)

So, as I am pouring the last mouthful of wine for myself from a bottle that was full moments ago, I can hear this:

“Oh-my-God-this-room-is-a-mess-I-never-heard-of-a-girl-who-can’t-keep-track-of-her-own-clothes-your-Mom-spent-all-that-money-buying-these-things-for-you-and-this-is-the-way-you-two-treat-them-you- kids-are-spoiled-rotten-I’ll-tell-you-what-I-wouldn’t-let-anyone-have-a-Gameboy-until-they-could-learn-to-make-a-bed-properly-are-these-clothes-dirty-if-they-are-then-put-them-somewhere-where-they-can- be-washed-and-if-they-aren’t-fold-them-and-put-them-away-let-me-see-that-hair-when-was-the-last-time-you-combed-it-no-crying-or-I’ll-give-you-something-to-cry-about-hey-wait-a-minute-you…”

And since she visits twice a year, at this point she is less familiar to them than their school bus driver – and probably has earned far less authority and trust from them.

I can tell from their voices that they are envisioning her sailing over the railing and down the flight of stairs head first.

And frankly, so am I.