Wednesday, 4 December 2013

Remembering That I am Someone's Baby

    My life revolves around my children and if there's left over energy it generally goes to my husband.  Most days my children are on my mind when I wake up (sometimes not always lovingly, depending on if they are fighting), and until sleep finally comes to claim me.  I worry about them.  I worry that I am not living up to the potential that I feel like they deserve to have in me as their mother.  I beat myself up until my emotions are raw when I have made a misstep.  Very rarely do I give myself credit for a job well done, because I am so busy worrying about my short comings.  In other words I am a mother above all else.  I know that I have parents and I love them and worry for them, but sometimes I forget that I am someone's child.

    Last week my Dad went in for surgery on his nose.  His first surgery on his nose was when I was two or three.  It was painful for him, and if he were to push aside his machoness he would have admitted he was not looking forward to the pain involved in this surgery 40 years later.  Dad went to see my nose doctor, Dr. Smith  I knew that he was in good hands.  We had known and planned for Dad's surgery for months, and yet were shocked when it finally came around.  All that I can say is that my Dad is one tough old bird.  He didn't even complain about the pain and discomfort.  They kept him in the hospital overnight, which meant Mom and I had an unexpected hotel stay.  I had carefully made up the back seat of my van with comfy blankets thinking that he might have the chills, and would like to maybe recline and sleep.  I had to fight Dad from walking out to the parking lot with me to collect the van.  I had to run to the parking lot hoping that Dad would just stay put in the lobby, basically Mom had to sit on him and threaten him.  I pulled the van around and opened the back van door, ready to help my convalescing father in.  "I think that I would rather sit in the front seat." he announced.  Mom just shook her head, and climbed into the back.  She kept yelling up "Oh this is cozy, I'm so glad our daughter made this up for me".
    Yesterday Dad went back into Toronto for his one week check up and to get his stitches and his stints out.  He kept saying that he could drive himself.  I insisted that I would go with him, just incase.  Well Dad drove both ways.  I am still shaking my head at that stubborn man, and yet admit to a great deal of pride in his toughness.  It ended up being a really nice day, maybe not for Dad, but for me it was.  We all laughed and had a nice time.  Mom and Dad treated me to dinner, insisted, even when I tried to insist that I would buy my own.  Coming home I said that I really wanted a gingerbread latte from Starbucks, could we stop if we see one?  We drove and we drove, but no Starbucks (write that down somewhere that in the city we could not find a single Starbucks).  I shouted out "Mama wants a gingerbread latte!"  Then I stopped, and rethought that first statement... "Baby wants a gingerbread lattee."  In that van I was not "Mama", I was someone's baby.  I forget that I'm someone's baby.
Mom said "Bruce our baby wants a gingerbread latte!"  She said it jokingly.  "Imagine asking someone where the nearest Starbucks is, because your baby wants a gingerbread latte.  Imagine that person's face when they look at you disgusted and ask how old your baby is".
    At the end of the evening Mom and Dad dropped me off at "my" house, to "my" family.  Mom gave me a hug when I got out and thanked me for being a good daughter.  I will admit to being a little teary eyed at this.  I forget that I am their child.  All of the hopes and fears that I have for my growing children, they have for their grown children, and grandchildren.  I don't just love, but am loved and worried about.  It's kind of a nice feeling.

1 comment:

  1. I loved the pictures; it's nice to be reminded how young we once looked, especially the hairdos. Don's hair was longer than mine at one point. Tidey