My mother’s back in town and already there are these gems:
Me: She’s in that WIC program.
Mom: The wheat program?
Me: The WIC program.
Mom: The WEC program?
Me: Yeah, Mom. The WEC program. For women, elephants and children.
Mom: Oh Mona there’s a big bird on that field! It’s geese!
Me: Yes, they’re wild geese.
Mom: Can we shoot them? You know, for Thanksgiving?
Until yesterday afternoon, my husband had skin cancer. It was basal cell carcinoma. It is very common and luckily, treatable. He didn’t want me to say anything because his mother died of skin cancer and that word triggers fear in his siblings who are quick to worry, panic and recite rosaries. And yesterday, my mom became a babysitter hours after her plane landed just so I could accompany my husband to the surgery center. Now he has a maxi-pad taped to the side of his face, covering a nickel-sized crater where the cancer used to be.
Also, his TB test came out negative. His cancer has been carved out. There are no worries now. We have a doctor in the family.
This weekend, I drove almost two hours to buy 13 cans of 12.9 oz Enfamil lipil with iron formula. I saved 116 bucks. If she had let me use a coupon or one of my Enfamil checks, I would have collapsed.
My breast situation has been replaced with my utter hatred for our living space. Before Nathan and the deluge of baby acoutrement that came with, this apartment was fine. It yielded us enough space to have one cat and maybe the occasional single visitor. I didn’t need an intercom to find my husband, I could just yell. But now, with my mother and her luggage here and the three baskets of laundry waiting for my lazy ass, there is no room. I’ve seen more distance between that one-armed sufer girl and the shark.
How do you keep it together? My ears are open.