to the places you will be from
photo: flickr
When I go back home, part of me still feels like the child I was when I grew up there.
Intellectually, I know that I am grown and have personal and professional accomplishments, yet it is easy to return to familiar roles - son, younger brother, older brother, etc. For the most part, I am freed from the majority of my adult responsibilities the second I step foot in the door.
My mother has been staying with us for the past few days because she flew out to California to celebrate my sister's birthday, and her visit has introduced a new dynamic into my life. I continued to bestow upon my mother the customary level of reverence (or irreverence, for that matter) that I have long maintained, but my mother became dependent on Lindsey and me in a unique way this weekend.
The dependence has not burdened us in any way, nor is it greater than that of any houseguest. So that is not my reason for observing it. Rather, a small but novel role-reversal apparently emerges when I am the one being visited by my parents (as opposed to the other way around).
I drive - no need to borrow the family suv. I must provide clean towels and sheets. I know the places where we can gain sustenance of the delicious variety, including but not limited to: burgers from Red Robin, Baker's bean and cheese burritos, and frozen yogurt by the ounce . . . or pound.
Don't the rest of you wish you visited me more often?
Being new at this, I stand to learn a few things. This morning I left for work without ensuring my mother had food for breakfast or lunch. Nor did I instruct my mother on how to operate the somewhat complicated tv and dvd player/recorder combination - the disastrous results of which one can only imagine considering the boomer generation's ongoing struggle to conquer the flashing vcr clock.
Lest anyone should fret, my mother brought her own breakfast because, well, she is a mother. If she should grow hungry again before I return from work to treat her to a late lunch, there are at least cookies and salad in the apartment somewhere. Her chances of survival look good. As for the dvd player and tv, I placed a call this morning to explain the remote control functions to her.
If I return and the clock on the dvd player, microwave, and/or alarm clock are not [all] blinking, it will be nothing short of a miracle. If not, I have no one but myself to blame.
Intellectually, I know that I am grown and have personal and professional accomplishments, yet it is easy to return to familiar roles - son, younger brother, older brother, etc. For the most part, I am freed from the majority of my adult responsibilities the second I step foot in the door.
My mother has been staying with us for the past few days because she flew out to California to celebrate my sister's birthday, and her visit has introduced a new dynamic into my life. I continued to bestow upon my mother the customary level of reverence (or irreverence, for that matter) that I have long maintained, but my mother became dependent on Lindsey and me in a unique way this weekend.
The dependence has not burdened us in any way, nor is it greater than that of any houseguest. So that is not my reason for observing it. Rather, a small but novel role-reversal apparently emerges when I am the one being visited by my parents (as opposed to the other way around).
I drive - no need to borrow the family suv. I must provide clean towels and sheets. I know the places where we can gain sustenance of the delicious variety, including but not limited to: burgers from Red Robin, Baker's bean and cheese burritos, and frozen yogurt by the ounce . . . or pound.
Don't the rest of you wish you visited me more often?
Being new at this, I stand to learn a few things. This morning I left for work without ensuring my mother had food for breakfast or lunch. Nor did I instruct my mother on how to operate the somewhat complicated tv and dvd player/recorder combination - the disastrous results of which one can only imagine considering the boomer generation's ongoing struggle to conquer the flashing vcr clock.
Lest anyone should fret, my mother brought her own breakfast because, well, she is a mother. If she should grow hungry again before I return from work to treat her to a late lunch, there are at least cookies and salad in the apartment somewhere. Her chances of survival look good. As for the dvd player and tv, I placed a call this morning to explain the remote control functions to her.
If I return and the clock on the dvd player, microwave, and/or alarm clock are not [all] blinking, it will be nothing short of a miracle. If not, I have no one but myself to blame.
Update:
The clocks are all still set correctly.
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