Mothers and their grown babies

It is Saturday afternoon and I’m at home, trying to write. Mom lives with my husband and me. On Saturdays Don usually heads to the office, and recently I've begun to stay home, spending the day writing, and taking dips in the pool. And visiting with Mom.

Of course, when I’m trying to write, it’s not the best time for a visit. A few minutes ago, she was sitting in the rocking chair, watching me write, and offering distracting comments. Jokingly I suggested a new policy. I would hang a sock on the den’s door. That would mean she could come it, but the sock had to go into her mouth. If the sock was not on the door, she could come in, and feel free to visit.

I don’t think she liked the idea. She then went to get the mail, and brought me mine. She paused a moment, and gave me a hug.

A week or so ago, while in Portland, attending our son’s wedding, I had an “episode”, which landed me in the hospital. To make a long story short (as goes the cliché) I had a sudden case of vertigo, where my world started to spin, and kept doing so for about five hours.

The doctors said it could either be a mini-stroke or an inner ear infection. After a series of tests, the consensus was inner ear, not a stroke. Yet, mom was at the hospital with us, and apparently (unknown to me at the time) falling apart. Her “baby” was in the hospital, and it could possibly be serious.

Anyway…a few minutes ago she hugged me, and I teased her about me being her baby. (A 53 year old baby). She told me, in a whimsical sort of way, "when you were a little girl, I just loved you so much."

Loved? I asked? Don’t you still?

She paused a moment, remembering that little girl, with feathery thin hair, provoking people to ask why I didn’t any, which only incensed the overly protective mother.

In one moment Mom expressed how deeply she loved that little girl.

And in the next moment, she told me how she loved me more.

Mothers. Our children will always be our babies.