Sunday

I'm taking out the trash when I hear:

Mom, picking up the Post: Is this paper very leftist?
Dad: Probably not.
Mom: Well, I think it's leftist. I'm not going to read it.
Dad: You may as well read it, for the news if not the opinions.
Mom: Who needs the news?

***
I was afraid I'd disappoint my readership with the news that, throughout the entire weekend, the word "fat" was only used in reference to Gracie. As it happened, at some point this evening, mom came through for you.

Mom: Have you gotten fatter?
A.: [Shrug]
Mom: I think you have.
A.: [Shrug]
Mom: Well, that coat you bought over the winter should be plenty of motivation to lose weight.

***
I'm not sure why--perhaps because I've been better about meditation--but I've been better able to stop back and deconstruct the ridiculousness of much of the dialogue between my mother and me. I'm not yet at the point where I keep my patience indefinitely, but I'm closer than I ever have been.

It's not just that she chooses the most inopportune times to ask questions--and she kept doing it throughout the weekend. Dad would explain something about the gate, and at that moment she'd have to say something. I would have to ask her to wait until he was finished--I mean, you just can't listen to two people talk at the same time. Dad would as well, although he was nicer about it. He would say, "which of these topics is more time-sensitive?"

It's also that we speak different "languages," which I've always known, but I see better now. I've seen it before when I've made the mistake of telling a joke in front of my mother (or watching TV with her). She fixates on things that don't matter, asks too many questions about them, and doesn't draw logical conclusions that could help her figure out what's going on. But it's not limited to jokes.

A.: They're going to build a metro stop here.
Mom: But there's one nearby.
A.: There's BR, which is the one near my house. It's a good hour's walk from the mall. There's nothing between the airport and BR.
Mom: The metro's where those big condo complexes are, right?
A.: Yeah. That's a hike from here.
Mom: But who needs to metro here?
A.: People who shop at Target?
Mom: So you'd metro here?
A.: Occasionally.

It's not that I'm impatient, that it bothers me that this conversation could have been a third of its length. It bothers me that my mother loves to ask questions so much that she doesn't bother to think things through. Or recall when she last asked the question. She gets very sensitive when I call her on that, because she might be under the impression that it's age-related, but I'm not worried, because she's always been like that--always asked the same questions, day after day, especially when she didn't like the response last time around. That's not how age-related memory loss manifests itself. Below is a sampling of the questions my mom's asked me at least once a day since Friday. By today, I just said 'what do you think?' and let dad answer. Because he actually pays attention when I answered the first time.

Mom: You don't eat soup, huh?
Mom: How many people fit in your house when you have parties?
Mom: Do you have friends at work?
Mom: Do you park out back every day?
Mom: Why is Gracie so fat?
Mom: What kind of internet do you have?

I get annoyed because some of those questions are her way of communicating judgment in question form; and because I get sick of having the same conversation repeatedly.

***
Speaking of how many people fit in the house at parties...

A.: I'm sorry mom. I appreciate that you wrapped it and lugged it down here, but it just doesn't work for me. It's not my style.
Mom: Well, hold onto it until it is your style.
A.: I don't have room for it.
Mom: It'll come in handy when you have big sit-down dinners some day.
A.: It still don't like it.
Mom: But it's so practical.
A.: I. Don't. Like. It.
Mom: Fine, I guess we'll take it back.

Except we had to have the conversation many more times.

***
It's been an enjoyable visit overall, and very productive, although I'd hoped for more 'fun.' Part of why I paid someone to install a fence/gate was so that my father wouldn't feel like he had to deal with it next time he visited. But the post-snowmageddon winds blew the gate off its posts, and dad insisted on fixing it. He seemed to enjoy working on it, too. If he's happy, I'm fine with it.