Miles To Go Before I Sleep

The next morning, after breakfast, where we rehash and relive some of the funnier moments of the weekend, we begin our goodbyes.

I am off to Scott's to spend what remains of the weekend with him.  I'd forfeited some much treasured time, and want to see him. Feel him. Hold him. Remember that he's real. Remind him that we're real.  I wonder if he has any of the insecurities that Jill's husband has. I want him to know he can dismiss them.  Girl's weekend is about the girls. And girls need girls in spite of all the other gifts they have in their lives.

Scott and I enjoy the rest of the weekend. A long motorcycle ride. Time together. Talking. Cooking. Planning.

Work the next day is excruciatingly dull by comparison to the weekend, but two of my more painful colleagues are on vacation, one for the second week in a row, and I am dealing with less interference than usual.  Good thing. I have the patience of a sand flea.

The weekend is on its way and I have a full schedule.  The kids and I are off to DC for a few days beginning on Sunday and I have a lot to accomplish between now and then. 

But first, I must at least acknowledge my mother's birthday.  I am not sure exactly what is appropriate to do when you are not speaking. My kids are away with their father and can't sign a card. I refuse to spend money on a gift that is not sent from my heart.  At the last minute I buy a card that is sort of cute and sassy and has pink cowboy boots on it. I write something cheerful and benign about celebrating her birthday in style. 

It is indeed the Devil's bargain. I am damned no matter what I do. Damned if I do nothing.  Damned no matter what the gesture, large or small. Mom  is essentially dead to me and I to her. But there is the not inconsequential issue of the grandchildren.  They have a tenuous relationship with her, of her own making, but I do not necessarily relish perpetuating my own issues with my mother through them. If they turn around and hate me when they are in their 40s I suppose I can't avoid that, but I don't want to teach them that it is okay to write me off now when they disagree with me about sleepovers or skirt length or T-shirt messages or the amount of time spent on XBox Live.  Let's save the write off for the big arguments. It took me decades to finally push back at my mother. And she went willingly across the divide never to completely turn back.  Like it was just waiting to happen. I don't want to suggest to my kids that this is the way conflicts are handled from the start.

I write out the card and sign all of our names. I close with the words, "Happy Birthday, Love, Liza, Pat and Hil and Trinket."  Keeping it light. Keeping it superficial. I am sure she got the message.

As luck would have it, I don't get it into the mail in time to arrive on her birthday or before. It will arrive a day late. In that time she will have made at least a half dozen calls to people to chat about what a hateful, spiteful child I've become. What a horrible example I've set. How selfish and self-centered I've become.  And she'll have told all her Bridge friends, all of whom will be so glad not to be arguing politics with her.

And she'll have refrained from mentioning it to Charlotte. Because mentioning it to Charlotte will be as though she'd whispered it in my ear. And God forbid she should appear to care. 

I chat with Charlotte a day or so later. I confess about the late mailing of the not terribly warm and fuzzy card. She could not care less. She does tell me though that she told Mom about J. having passed away.  Mom's comments were limited to "Really?  How about that."  But nothing compelled her to call me, to see if I were feeling okay with it. Much like nothing compelled me to call her and tell her about it.  Not that my world had been rocked by loss, just that it is not every day that someone you once shared your life with dies so young, and after so much has happened. A normal mother would want to be sure that that is the case and not much more. But not my mother. It was the perfect excuse to call. For both of us. And neither one seized the opportunity.  And the chasm inches a little wider apart.

But there is no time to dwell on Mom or her multitude of shortcomings. I have got to get my game on.  Pat and Hil and I will be taking DC by storm, and I have a home and yard to maintain before then.

I rev up my lawn mower and put on my gardening clogs. Mama's got a yard to keep.