Sweet Mystery Sauce

, , , , , , , , | Related | September 9, 2018

I will start off by saying that my mom is a very sweet and kind lady. However, sometimes she can be a little… judgy, especially towards my husband. He is more than aware of this, but they usually get along pretty well.

My mom recently had a project for work — involving crafting and kids — that used sugar. She had no idea how much sugar she would need, so she did what any reasonable person would do; she bought a large 35-pound bag of sugar. She didn’t need nearly that much, and is now up to her elbows in sugar. She has started storing it in large containers and putting them in the freezer.

Notably, my husband and I go through a lot of sugar, the biggest contributing factor being that he is a hopeless coffee addict. One evening, I’m getting ready to leave my parents’ house when it starts storming. My husband had asked me earlier in the day to stop at the store on the way home and pick up sugar. Upon seeing the rain, I mention to my mom that I don’t really feel like stopping. She goes to the freezer and pulls out what is probably about three or four pounds of sugar and gives it to me, telling me to let her know if I need more. I thank her and head out.

Not two weeks later, we have used most of the container, and I estimate that we will be out in a day or two. I mention to my husband that I will probably ask for more sugar when I see my mom next. He suggests buying some from the store because he “doesn’t want my mom’s judgment about our sugar usage.” I wave him off, and my mom is happy to unload more sugar.

A couple days later, I mention to my husband that she didn’t seem to care about our rate of sugar intake. In fact, she had more to say about the fact that I had brought my drink from home with me when I went to visit, instead of taking one that she offered!

My husband was silent for a moment before finally saying, “Your mother is an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, and slathered with mystery sauce.”

With A Mother Like That, Pain Tolerance Is Through The Roof

, , , , , , , , | Healthy | August 10, 2018

I am seven months pregnant, and my friend picks me up for a girl’s night. We watch movies, eat junk food, etc., until she falls asleep about one am. At two, I’m still up, unable to get comfortable. I’ve been having Braxton Hicks contractions for the last couple of days, but tonight they’re just relentless.

I consider waking my friend up to take me home; however, she has epilepsy, often triggered by exhaustion and lack of sleep. She’s a bit of a worry-wort, and I don’t want to have her be tired, panic, and end up having a seizure, especially while we’re on the road.

About six am, I get a hold of my mother, and she agrees to come get me. By this point, the contractions hurt, and I can’t really sit or stand. But I don’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill, so I just grit my teeth and breathe until they’re over. Once there, my mom tells me that she doesn’t really know how to help me, but that she’s going to take me to the hospital, just in case there’s a problem.

When we get to the hospital, I have to stop every couple of steps to breathe and crouch over. My mother comments, “You don’t have a very high pain tolerance, do you? You’ve never really been able to handle pain.”

I ignore her comment because she’s been saying this since I was a kid. Once we finally make it to labor and delivery, the nurse — who has a really cool tattoo sleeve — tests for leaking amniotic fluid, and checks my cervix. She makes a less than promising face, then tells me that she’s going to grab another nurse for another opinion.

She comes back with an older lady that doesn’t even look at me. They go to the counter and I hear the nurse with the sleeve showing her the amniotic test. “It’s faint, but I definitely see a line.” The older nurse glances at it and quickly dismisses her, “No, no. It’s definitely negative.” The sleeved nurse says, “No, I think it’s positive for fluid. Can you at least check her cervix? I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I think it’s close.” The older nurse rolls her eyes, “It isn’t close to her due date, but fine.”

The older nurse then turns to me and goes to check my cervix. Her eyes widen, and she turns back to the nurse with the sleeve. Unfortunately, I have another contraction and only manage to catch a couple key words of their conversation. Then, the older nurse leaves. The sleeved nurse gently talks me through the contraction, and then tells me what’s going on:

At 29 weeks, I am in labor, already eight centimeters dilated, though my water hasn’t broken. The baby could come at any time now, but they are going to try to give me some medications to slow it down. She says that she is going to call the doctor to get approval on some pain medication for me.

Six hours later, I give birth to a healthy baby girl, who is rushed off to the NICU. I silently labored for almost 12 hours, and almost had my baby at my friend’s house. After everything calms down, I am bewildered at my mother’s “low pain tolerance” comment, and I wonder what would’ve happened if I had only seen the older nurse and not had the sleeved nurse to stand up for me. The sleeved nurse was the most amazing healthcare professional I’d ever had, because for the first time, she took what I said seriously. My daughter is doing well, and will hopefully be able to come home soon. My mother still believes that I’m over-dramatic and wimpy when it comes to pain, but at least I can say I went through most of my labor without medication or complaint.

Deaf To Your Wit

, , , , , | Friendly | June 13, 2018

(My mother is a children’s librarian at the public library. Sometimes I volunteer to help out during story time. My mother’s coworker has the day off, and she and her six-year-old daughter come in. The little girl has a hearing impairment that requires her to wear hearing aids. As I’m supervising the kids during crafts, I hear this gem:)

Little Boy: *running around before he stops and taps her on the shoulder* “Hey, what are those things on your ears?”

Coworker’s Daughter: *turns around to address him* “They’re my hearing devices. They help me listen. You could probably use some.” *turns back around and goes back to her craft*

“Gone” Travelling

, , , , | Romantic | April 28, 2018

(My mom is a dreamer and loves to travel. My father, on the other hand, is more of a homebody, and my mom lovingly refers to him as an old curmudgeon.)

Mom: “Man, I’d love to go to the beach. Or Paris. Or London.”

Dad: “Honey, when I’m gone, you can travel wherever you want to, whenever you want to.”

Mom: “Why do I have to wait?”

Dad: *pause* “Fair enough.”

Unfiltered Story #107758

, , | Unfiltered | March 21, 2018

(I have just arrived at my parents’ house to use thier shower while my apartment nearby is being renovated. They are at work, and I decide to hang out for a while to spend time with the cats. As I let myself in, my parents’ senior cat asks to be let out. It’s a quiet neighborhood, and as a younger cat, he loved to go outside and catch birds and mice. As he’s gotten older, he’s slowed down, and although he still likes to go outside, he never ventures far from the porch, and is usually ready to come in after 5 or 10 minutes. After about 10 minutes, I open the front door to find a Pest Control guy standing there.)

Pest control guy: Hi, there. I’m just here to spray. I was careful not to get too close to the catfood dishes on the porch. I should be done shortly.

(Normally it’s not a big deal, but the pest control people always put my family on edge. A few years before, we had a cat that fell asleep in the shade, behind a different pest control guy’s truck in our driveway. The guy hopped in and immediately slammed the truck into reverse, killing our cat before he had a chance to move. I had never seen my father so angry, and my mother was crushed. It was declared “an unfortunate accident”, and my father then made a point to hire a better company with employees with more thorough training and customer service, for our pest control needs.)

Me: Oh, okay. I was looking for our black cat. He’s out here somewhere, probably ready to come in. He’s almost 17, and his age is starting to show, so we try to keep an eye on him.

Pest control guy: *chuckling* Well, I just backed into the driveway. I didn’t see him. Hope I didn’t hit him!

Me: *trying to keep a blank face, but feeling a grimace creeping in* Please be mindful. He may run if he doesn’t recognize you. Thanks.

(I shut the door and sat down with the inside cats. After another 10 minutes, I opened the door again to see if the cat was on the porch. He wasn’t, but the guy was in the front yard, checking termite traps.

Pest control guy: Hey! As I walked around to the back yard, I saw a black cat run up the side of the house, towards the driveway. I don’t know where he is now.

(I realize he was not malicious in intent, but I still don’t see how it could be professional to joke about running over a family pet while on said family’s property. Fortunately, our senior cat showed up on the porch a few hours later, and happily trotted inside to the food bowl. My father was visibly relieved, and I finally left after I knew everything was okay.)

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