In the nine days that my mother has been here, I’ve busied myself at work during the bulk of the day. My mother has busied herself with re-arranging our house so it functions according to her standards. She prompts me with harmless lessons about cleaning the iron before I use it and what settings to use on different fabrics. Apparently, she thinks I use only one setting: hot.
Whenever she pops up with how-to’s and you-should’s I nod and agree with what she says and thank her for showing me how to fold the blankets and clean the bedding. She’s also very proud of the mending she’s performed on my husband’s pants. She sticks her hand in the pant leg like a puppet coming to life and raises her cross-stitches to the light like it’s mined-gold. She describes her technique in very detailed, technical terms, i.e., “You go like this and then you go like this.” You know what I do when my pants need mending? I buy new pants. My mother, however, insists that we buy patches and quarter-yards of fabric to piece together pants that end up looking like a big quilt anyway.
This morning she vetoed my sweater because it’s too tight. Of course it’s too tight. I’m 38 weeks pregnant. Everything is too tight. You know what isn’t too tight? Bedsheets.
Dear Target: move your bedding to the maternity section so we can all be happy.