Perspective
We are moving, and my daughter and I are packing a load of things to take to the new house before the movers come tomorrow. My daughter goes from room to room, pulling out clothes and boxes and moving other things around. During all of our past moves, I was the one doing most of the organizing and unpacking, but this time everyone else seems to be doing everything. I guess this time is different because the girls are older now; but I really wish they would tell me the plans because I never know what’s going on. I should be helping, but every time I do something, someone gets upset because I didn’t do it right. I haven’t always been this useless, have I?
“Mom, why don’t you get the thallab,” my daughter says when I start looking through a box filled with paper and glass. When I don’t move, she repeats herself. “It’s downstairs,” she adds, “why don’t you bring it up so we can take it.”
Thallab—it sounds familiar, but I don’t think I know what that is.
When I get to the basement, I don’t quite remember the name, but the thing is on the tip of my tongue. Desk? No, that’s not right. Folding chair? No.
I spot a pink thing on the floor. Maybe this is it, I think and drag it up the stairs.
“No, Mom, that’s a bean bag,” my daughter says when she sees me.
“Well, what did you want?” I ask. Surely what I have will work just as well.
“The thallab,” she says a little louder. “It’s next to the coffee table and the pronty.”
I take the pink thing back downstairs. I see the coffee table, but am not quite sure what the pronty is. There are some soft square things; are they the pronty? Or the thing I need to get? I’m really not sure, but I grab them anyway. As I go up the stairs, my daughter sees me and sets down the light in her hand.
“This isn’t right either,” I say before she can.
She sighs. “No, I need the thallab, just like this one.” She points to the paper shade resting on the ceramic base. “You know, the kind you plug into the wall and turn on when it gets dark.”
I am confused. That’s not called a thallab. I don’t quite remember the name, but I’m pretty sure that is not it. Why can’t I think of what it is?
As I turn to go back down the stairs, my daughter calls from the other room, “While you’ve got those pillows in your arms, you might as well put them in the chims.”
Chims? What do I do now?
“Mom, why don’t you get the thallab,” my daughter says when I start looking through a box filled with paper and glass. When I don’t move, she repeats herself. “It’s downstairs,” she adds, “why don’t you bring it up so we can take it.”
Thallab—it sounds familiar, but I don’t think I know what that is.
When I get to the basement, I don’t quite remember the name, but the thing is on the tip of my tongue. Desk? No, that’s not right. Folding chair? No.
I spot a pink thing on the floor. Maybe this is it, I think and drag it up the stairs.
“No, Mom, that’s a bean bag,” my daughter says when she sees me.
“Well, what did you want?” I ask. Surely what I have will work just as well.
“The thallab,” she says a little louder. “It’s next to the coffee table and the pronty.”
I take the pink thing back downstairs. I see the coffee table, but am not quite sure what the pronty is. There are some soft square things; are they the pronty? Or the thing I need to get? I’m really not sure, but I grab them anyway. As I go up the stairs, my daughter sees me and sets down the light in her hand.
“This isn’t right either,” I say before she can.
She sighs. “No, I need the thallab, just like this one.” She points to the paper shade resting on the ceramic base. “You know, the kind you plug into the wall and turn on when it gets dark.”
I am confused. That’s not called a thallab. I don’t quite remember the name, but I’m pretty sure that is not it. Why can’t I think of what it is?
As I turn to go back down the stairs, my daughter calls from the other room, “While you’ve got those pillows in your arms, you might as well put them in the chims.”
Chims? What do I do now?
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