Bow Tie o’ the Day has been kickin’ it around the couch with Mom today, although we lost Mom for a few minutes.
This is our first Mom-sitting visit at Ron’s and Marie’s new abode, and I didn’t know if Mom had changed up her routine since their recent move. While they’re away, Ron gave me two jobs: don’t break Mom, and don’t lose Mom. (These are the same two jobs I give him when he’s got her.) This afternoon, when Mom told me she was going outside for a walk to loosen up her hip, I just assumed it was part of her new routine in her new place. Mom has never had a wandering-off problem, so out the door I let her go ahead of me while I went into the kitchen to find the mailbox key. With mailbox key in hand, Skitter and I went out the front door to join Mom on her walk, and to pick up the mail while we were at it.
Lo, and behold!
Where’s Mom? We looked left. We looked right. We looked hither and yon. We looked around this corner, and that corner. We looked under cars and in bushes and in swimming pools. No Mom. No Mom’s walker. She left no bread crumbs for us to follow. She left no half-empty Pepsi cans for us to follow. She didn’t peel off her clothes and leave us a wardrobe trail. I put Skitter onto her scent, but Skitter smelled nary a sign of Mom. I was truly afeared.
I retrieved my phone from the house and headed back outside and up the sidewalk. I was just about to do a bit of 911 dialing, and Mom and her walker showed up on the horizon. She was, in fact, fine. She was, in fact, going through her new usual routine. Apparently, there’s a bench a ways up the street where she sits to rest her walker and her behind during her daily strolls. Unfortunately, the bench is not visible from the sidewalk. Now I know.
Anyhoo… All is well. Mom is safe. I am not inept. Skitter had a St. George walk. And to top it off, it was CHRONICLE-PROGRESS day! That mailbox key made Mom’s day. She loves her CHRONICLE.
Listen to me when I tell you that Mom doesn’t share her CHRONICLE with anyone on Wednesday’s after it arrives. If she dozes on the couch and you try to sneak her CHRONICLE off her lap, she snaps awake and clutches that newspaper like you’re trying to steal a grandchild. If you try to touch Mom’s CHRONICLE the day it shows up in Mom’s mailbox, you will not lose just a couple of fingers. You will not lose just a hand. You will lose at least an arm and a shoulder and your spleen. And while you’re writhing in pain and spurting blood on the floor, Mom will simply open up her CHRONICLE and read the obituaries to see if she’s in them yet.