The Mother Lode

I am 35 years younger than my mom.  I can't quite shake that fact, especially when I try to get up off the floor after a game of Yahtzee or wonder what on earth I should feed my family this week, and then try to imagine myself doing either of these things for another 35 years.  

Sometimes, I don't give my mom enough credit for those 35 years she has on me.  She has, after all, lived a lot more life than I have.  She has experienced things that I cannot yet fathom, including burying two children and outliving my father.  She has also survived Spam casseroles and Richard Nixon,  breast cancer and the Internet.   And she's done it in much classier style than I ever will.

These facts stand in stark contrast to the impatience I have felt towards my mom in the last few months.

While my mom shrinks physically, it seems that I am shrinking emotionally, right alongside her.  As her memory switches between lucidity and invisible ink, my siblings and I find ourselves being assigned new roles--cab driver, personal shopper, exhausted parent--despite our longing for revising our old roles again.  As Yogi Berra once said, though, nostalgia ain't what it used to be.  And fond memories aren't particularly helpful as my family navigates these new and difficult waters.

Really, what my mom could use from me right now is a good foot rub.  That used to be one of my unofficial roles as a Raglin child, rubbing my parents' feet.   As I close my eyes and imagine rubbing my 88-year-old mother's knobby, gnarled feet, a wave of compassion comes over me.  I press my imaginary thumb gently into the sole of her foot, working small circles around it, while the rest of my hand cradles her toes.

My heart slows and softens, just thinking about giving her a foot rub.  And--somehow--the mere thought of this simple, loving act makes more room in my heart for Sally Raglin, my mother of 53 years.  The woman who needs her kids a little more these days.  And--right now, at least--I think that I just might be up for the extra work.