My mom came to our house this weekend. She's getting older, and doesn't visit as much as she used to. My sister was here, too, with my cutie-pie niece.
The kids love it: Max has a special squeal for when Babba walks in the front door. Sabrina, who can be a bit blasé, gets very cuddly with her. Me? I just feel happy and...comforted. There is nothing like having my mommy around. And I do not feel the least bit too old to say that.
Nobody but my Mom asks me if I'd like a piece of fruit to eat (sure!) . Nobody but my mom asks if I'm overly stressed and whether I need a break from work (nope). Nobody but Mom tells me my skin looks as good as it ever did. "Now what did Marilyn call it? Porcelain!" she'll say, and I'll beam. (For the record, her eyesight is perfectly fine.) Nobody but Mom says "Do you have enough Tampax? Would you like me to buy you some? They are on sale this week!" I mean, who in the world cares enough about me to ask that? Mom.
Whenever she comes over, she usually brings some sort of memorabilia. This time, she had a birthday card I sent her in my early 20s whose cover said, "Mom, do you remember when I was a kid and I listened to you all the time?" And when you opened it the inside read, "Me, either." And we both cackled.
My mom waters my plants. She cleans up the crumbs on the kitchen counter. She watches HGTV with me and marvels over the home renovations. She sits and gazes at me adoringly and tells me how awesome the kids are.
She sprinkles her magic Babba dust all over our house, and I am under her spell. And suddenly, I am a kid again without a care in the world.
