The Ten-Dollar Daughter is Not Worthy

Hi. Welcome to MomTalk. The blog about various and assorted things my mom does. Things that are not considered normal by nine-tenths of the population. Yeah. I really should start a separate blog just for Mom stuff. I'm not laughing at her...okay, I am. But she knows it.

The problem is the lack of a good name. MomTalk just doesn't work. I can't exactly call it Sh*t My Mom Does, because that's kind of been done in a slightly different way. However, my mom would NEVER approve of the word sh*t. No sirree, Bob! We were not even allowed to say f*rt in our house. Or p**p. Or cr*p. We were verbally constipated. The closest Mom ever came to putting that topic into words was when somebody, (and I'm sure it was none of our family, because we knew better, knew the sh*tstorm that would result if we let one r*p), allowed an iota of flatulence to escape in the vicinity of Mom's snout. Mom would get that put-upon expression on her face, that sad, sad look, like the little bioluminescent bluebird in Journey to the Center of the Earth, the one with Brendan Fraser and Josh Hutcherson, when Josh tried to hop across those floating magnetic rocks over a chasm a billion feet deep, and knocked the last one in the line away from the edge. "Does somebody need to go to the bathroom?" That's all it took. We were mortified. Not because we t**ted, but because our friends looked at us with such pity. Yes, I need a good name for that very special Mom blog. Somehow, I don't think Having To Go To the Bathroom Stuff My Mom Does, quite c*ts it.

Today was the big day. When Mom just knew she was going to get her car out. I had promised her that I would come by after school to take her to the bank if she couldn't get out. Mom didn't want me to go out of my way, but I insisted. I told her I would call her after school to see if she got her Blazer out. I figured if all went well, she would get out and drive herself to the bank and run around town and kick up her heels in her holey-kneed gray sweatpants. She, herself, mentioned yesterday that she thought she was going stir crazy. When I talked to her at 10:00 last night, she agreed that salt just might work on thawing that pile of compacted snow at the edge of the road. In fact, she had tried to crush some of those one-inch cubes left over from her water softener, but could not. She didn't want to toss them out whole, because all they do is melt down in a hole to the ground.

"Mom. What's that gonna hurt? It will make holes to break up the big chunk, and then lay on the gravel until it dissolves."

"I guess you're right. I have a little bucket down in the basement that I can put some in when I get my plant dirt. I know it will melt tomorrow. When the sun hits that dirt, it won't take long."

I woke up with a killer headache this morning. When I called Mom, she still had her dirt plan. She said, "I would ask if there's anything I can do for you, but, well, I'm probably not going anywhere until this afternoon." All day I wondered how Mom was getting along.

I called as soon as I got back inside from my parking lot duty. "Did you get your car out, Mom?"

"Well, I put it off until 2:00. I thought, 'Oh, I can't go through this again. It's so disappointing.' The sun really did a lot of melting. I went out several times, and took a shovel, and chopped around where that salt made holes. There was only a little strip left, between my gravel and the blacktop. And this time, I didn't turn my wheels. I backed straight out. I didn't have any problem at all. In fact, I did it without even having my 4WD on."

"Mom! I don't know what you're saving that 4WD for! If there was ever a time to use it, it's now."

"But I didn't need it. How's your headache? I've been worried about you all day."

"It's gone now. I took an ibuprofen around 9:30, but it didn't work until 11:45. That headache will probably come back later tonight, when the ibuprofen wears off."

"Oh, honey, I hope not. So, are you getting ready to come out?"

"NO! I'm going home. I've had such a day!"

"Oh. I was really looking forward to you coming by."

"Yeah, right! I'm sure you were!"

"You go on home and put your feet up. Maybe take a nap and get some rest while The Pony and Hick are gone to the academic meet. I'll get my stuff together and take my checks to the bank. You take care of yourself."

"Wait. You didn't go to the bank when you got your car out?"

"No. I went back down the driveway and put it in the garage. I knew you were coming by. I was even going to buy you supper while we were out, or give you some money to pick something up. I'm so glad you're feeling better. You don't need to come all the way out here. I can go to the bank."

"What time does you bank close, Mom? Five? I can make it."

"Oh, don't cry. You go on home. You are so good to me. I don't have to cash those checks today."

"I've got to put these grades in. It will take about ten minutes. Then I'll be right there."

"You can pull on down in the driveway." 

What kind of terrible daughter am I? It was just a misunderstanding. Two. I was sure Mom would drive herself to the bank when she got her car out. All the town roads have been clear for a week. And when she said she was looking forward to me coming by, I thought she was joking. I talk to her twice a day. So I thought she was pulling my leg, joshin' me, polishing her wit to a fine edge on the grindstone of sarcasm. I had no idea she had been waiting all day for me to come pick her up. I was beside myself. How selfish of me. I rushed through today's scores and tossed the in-school suspension work aside for grading tomorrow. Mom was standing in her door waiting when I got there.

Mom needs to write a book called Rude Stuff My Daughter Does. I would gladly buy the first copy with that ten-dollar bill she gave me when she climbed into T-Hoe.