The Candy Ruse
I visit my parents’ house for the weekend to help clean and organize the basement. My mother spends most of the time following me around asking if she can help. I try to keep her involved, but there are a limited number of times instructions can be repeated, verbs explained, and objects described.
By Sunday afternoon, the project is still crawling, and my frustration leaks into comments.
“No, Mom, put the books on the shelf—no, the SHELF—no, put them over there on that thing with the other books—just put them down—forget it.”
My father watches for a minute and, also failing to direct her to the shelf, asks if she would accompany him to the grocery store.
She agrees with some trepidation. Backing toward the door, she asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to come and take a break?”
Itching to shelve the books my mother piled on the couch, I assure her that I’ll be fine.
She takes a few more steps and asks again, “Why don’t you take a break.” After repeating the question three more times, she is finally shepherded out the door by my father.
Uninhibited by concerns for my mother’s feelings or whereabouts, I organize cupboards and sort storage boxes as quickly as I can, all the while congratulating myself for not making a complete waste of the weekend.
When they return, my mother immediately returns to the basement and trots over to me.
Attempting to sidetrack her from disrupting my attempt to remove a carpet stain, I ask, “How was the store?”
She ignores my question. “Do you know what we didn’t get?”
I continue scrubbing the carpet fibers. Not looking up or hesitating with the paper towel in my hand, I pretend to guess, though I am almost certain of the answer. “M&M’s?”
She draws the word out for a few seconds and lets it fade at the end. “Yes.” In a heartbeat, her voice strengthens and she practically sings, “We’ll have to go get some.”
The paper towel disintegrates into the unyielding stain, and I sigh. “Am I going to drive there?”
Her words are sure and steady, “We are going to walk.”
I hear the smile in her voice before I see it on her face, and even then it startles me. This is the first time in months that I can remember her sounding excited about something, and it is just a lowly walk. Suddenly, I wonder if she didn’t forget about the M&M’s on purpose; maybe as a ruse to have an excuse to walk to the dollar store later.
I abandon the stain. As we stroll out of the driveway, I realize that my measurements of productivity are inaccurate, and that doing things with my mother is never a waste of time.
By Sunday afternoon, the project is still crawling, and my frustration leaks into comments.
“No, Mom, put the books on the shelf—no, the SHELF—no, put them over there on that thing with the other books—just put them down—forget it.”
My father watches for a minute and, also failing to direct her to the shelf, asks if she would accompany him to the grocery store.
She agrees with some trepidation. Backing toward the door, she asks, “Are you sure you don’t want to come and take a break?”
Itching to shelve the books my mother piled on the couch, I assure her that I’ll be fine.
She takes a few more steps and asks again, “Why don’t you take a break.” After repeating the question three more times, she is finally shepherded out the door by my father.
Uninhibited by concerns for my mother’s feelings or whereabouts, I organize cupboards and sort storage boxes as quickly as I can, all the while congratulating myself for not making a complete waste of the weekend.
When they return, my mother immediately returns to the basement and trots over to me.
Attempting to sidetrack her from disrupting my attempt to remove a carpet stain, I ask, “How was the store?”
She ignores my question. “Do you know what we didn’t get?”
I continue scrubbing the carpet fibers. Not looking up or hesitating with the paper towel in my hand, I pretend to guess, though I am almost certain of the answer. “M&M’s?”
She draws the word out for a few seconds and lets it fade at the end. “Yes.” In a heartbeat, her voice strengthens and she practically sings, “We’ll have to go get some.”
The paper towel disintegrates into the unyielding stain, and I sigh. “Am I going to drive there?”
Her words are sure and steady, “We are going to walk.”
I hear the smile in her voice before I see it on her face, and even then it startles me. This is the first time in months that I can remember her sounding excited about something, and it is just a lowly walk. Suddenly, I wonder if she didn’t forget about the M&M’s on purpose; maybe as a ruse to have an excuse to walk to the dollar store later.
I abandon the stain. As we stroll out of the driveway, I realize that my measurements of productivity are inaccurate, and that doing things with my mother is never a waste of time.
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