Mother henning to the max

Is there a statute of limitations on motherly smothering? My mother, soon to be 83, is driving me insane with her hand wringing. I teach ballroom dance, which she calls my "dance thing." She bemoans that I am not applying what I learned in college. How many literature majors (who don't end up teaching) apply what they learned in college?

When I shared with her my progress toward opening a handmade clothing and photography shop on etsy.com later this year, she cautioned that no one in the family ever succeeded in business. Well, I pointed out, no one else in the family ever became a journalist or speechwriter. Or married an American and made a life here, for that matter. Except for me. Perhaps I should've been a flight attendant like my sister, or a fighter pilot like my brother, or an Air Force colonel like my father, since those are the roads well taken.

Does your mother ever cluck-cluck you to distraction?

Rage against the boredom

I recently discovered copyblogger via ragan.com. Today's pithy quote, from http://www.copyblogger.com/more-writing-inspiration/:

"I’ve never heard of anyone who worked a boring job, came home to a boring family, watched three hours of boring television, and then proceeded to write something of spellbinding greatness. It just doesn’t happen. Here’s why: your writing is an extension of who you are.

If your life is a soul-sucking heap of mediocrity, then your writing will be a soul-sucking heap of mediocrity. Similarly, if your life is an adventure that brings you such joy you want to weep, then that joy will seep into your words, and anyone who reads them will begin to smile."

Save the worst for Mommy

Our 1 1/2-year-old grandson, William, spent the afternoon with us Saturday while his Mom went to a wedding at the Doubletree and his Dad helped a friend with a roof. What a delight and a pleasure little William was to have all to ourselves for the first time! He was so mellow and fascinated by everything. The TV remote, an empty plastic juice jug, a cereal box from the recycling bin, the light from my mouse shining on his bellybutton.

I actually got so relaxed that I conked on the couch for about a half hour when Steve awoke from his nap, and he seamlessly took over babysitting. Next thing I know, he was telling Sharon on the phone, "Yup, Oma (that's me, Dutch for Grandma) got worn out. I gave William some tea in his sippy cup." Oh, ooops! I bolted up and checked the cup. Sure enough, bottled tea instead of the water I'd put in there earlier. I guess Steve was having some tea and William had gotten curious. Grandpa doesn't have much experience with babies, not even his own, can you tell?

The spell broke the minute Sharon came back: a screaming, kicking William objected to being "abandoned" by her when she went to the bathroom. He got himself all worked up until he threw up on her. Steve expressed so much dismay over the Jekyll-and-Hide performance that Sharon felt embarrassed and tense. I kept reassuring both that it's normal for a wee one to save up his vehement best for the mommy, to punish her for leaving him. And that he had, after all, skipped a nap and was due for his dinner. He settled down quickly once we sat down to eat. After dinner, we went out on the shady deck and unleashed a bubble barrage on him. We so look forward to another chance to have him with us.