This morning I found two M & Ms: one on the bathmat and the other on top of the dirty clothes. I surreptitiously washed strawberries as well.
I feel myself tensing up at about the third time in as many minutes that Mom makes the same comment or asks the same question. The well-worn conversational loops are starting to wear my patience thin: for example, hearing the same remark about an article in Time every minute or less as she reads the same few lines after stopping to comment on them. I smile and nod when she tells me there is a lot of work she still has to do in the shop just moments after she tells me she finished all her work in the shop.
It’s the repetition that gets me. Last night was the excitement over the strawberries she picked: “What a wonderful crop . . . I love how they clean themselves—see how the tops came off so perfectly when I picked them . . . We should make jam . . . Do we have any pectin? . . . What a wonderful crop . . . I love how they clean themselves—see how the stems came off so perfectly . . . We should make jam . . . Do we have any pectin? . . . What a wonderful crop . . . “
Even while I am irritated, I am grateful that Mom is, for the most part, happy. I’m glad she can do as much as she can. I’m glad to be of help. I’m glad to find the M & Ms before they are washed. But the thing that makes me happiest of all is thoroughly rinsing the strawberries she put in the slug bait spreader before we eat them.
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