A few weeks after the world was supposed to end, Jonathan decided to celebrate the continuation of humankind by going snowboarding. Only he ended up commemorating his mortality by breaking his arm. (True story. And you can read about it here.)
While we were in the hospital waiting room (the size of a cattle holding pen), I couldn’t help but notice a sweet looking, little old lady. That’s not a cliché. She really was little. And old. And sweet looking.
Dressed in blue from head to toe, she was quiet in her demeanor, yet loud in appearance. I didn’t realize that the younger – but also oldish – lady beside her was her daughter until they spoke.
Little old lady: Oh, look! All the chairs are blue.
Younger, oldish lady: That’s right, mom. Your favourite colour!
That’s when I realized what was going on. I was witnessing a classic case of role reversal. This supposed natural phenomenon happens as we (the parents) get older and our kids deem it necessary to pick up the slack on our behalf – hopefully with as much enthusiasm as we had when we were changing their diapers.
And if Mother Nature is in a good mood, she’ll awaken this natural instinct in our kids when we’re senile so that we don’t notice what’s happening.
I’m thinking that either Mother Nature has a SICK SENSE OF HUMOUR or she’s taking my peanut-sized memory as an indication that it’s time for my kids to step up to the plate.
Last week Samantha offered to make my lunch for me. At the time I was all, “awwww, you’re so sweet.”
Clearly I was too caught up in the moment to make the connection between my use of the word “sweet” and that little old lady I saw at the hospital a few weeks ago.
When I unwrapped my sandwich a few hours later I was surprised to find what some countries may deem a delicacy:
– One slice of cold-cut turkey
– Two pieces of bread
No butter. No mayo. No flavor.
Dear Mother Nature:
Please don’t encourage my kids to take care of me just yet. I’m too young to be old and still have a few things left to teach them. Like the fine art of sandwich making.
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