More Rambling

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My mother retired in January. After twenty years in her field, she is no longer physically capable of doing her job. At first, I thought good on her, she deserves the break. But as time goes by, the realization that my mother is getting older has started to sink in. It's silly, right? Of course people get older, but there's something unnerving about watching your parents transition from the super hero's of your youth into something less grand.

I am the epitome of an adult child. I work hard to keep a thriving household. I do grown up things like buy insurance and make mortgage payments. But rarely does a day pass that I don't call my mom to make sure I'm doing it right. Her words of praise and comfort mean more to me than anyone's. I have sought her approval in everything I do, and apart from the cleaning of my window sills and baseboards, I have always gotten it.

My mother was widowed at a young age, and she took on the role of super parent early on. She coached my soccer team and taught my brothers to cook. She made sure there was food on the table and clothes on our back. She encouraged a love of literature and exposed us to different cultures, a rarity in our small town. She kept us in line with a sharp tongue and a strong wit. She could carry an injured teenager up a flight of stairs without breaking a sweat, and she could work 14 hour days just to come home and work for six more without complaint. She made Clair Huxtable look like a lazy cow.

When my grandmother passed away 8 years ago, it didn't come as any shock. She was old. Old people die. The most meaningful conversations I had with my grandmother pertained to her latest doctors appointment and how kids are these days. My mom and I would share a look and a snicker as she rambled on about rock music and all this AIDS they have now. Driving home from grandma's, we would get hysterical, seeing who could do the best feeble old lady impression. It never crossed my mind that the ailments we laughed at would affect one of us directly.

My mom has never been a complainer. She is the ultimate eye roller and the queen of suck it up and walk it off. Unfortunately, arthritis isn't something you can say fuck off to because you're busy. As her body betrays her spirit, a giant selfish fear grows inside of me. What's going to happen when I need my mommy? When everything goes so wrong that only she can fix it? I want to ask her if she felt the same way when her mother started to age, but I know what her answer will be: "Of for fuck's sake, go clean your baseboards."