Thursday, February 10, 2011

Mom - Always Right

I have talked about Mom quite a bit on this blog and everything I've always said about her is true.  She was an extraordinary woman. 

Tonight, however, as I was remaking a bed here at the cabin, I had to lie down because I was laughing so hard.

Notice that the headline for this blog is "They Call Me the Oracle."  I try to keep my mouth shut, unless I'm pretty sure that I'm right and even then, I tend to be wrong a lot of the time.  But, I come by this whole 'oracleness' honestly.  Mom absolutely hated to be wrong.  She hated it.  And she would wait as long as it might take to be proved correct.  Most of the time it didn't take that much time.

When I was just starting to school, for some reason or other, she felt it was necessary for me to be reminded every morning to put my underpants on.  I don't remember it being an issue, but it must have been.  Every single morning before I walked out the door to head for school, she would ask if I had underwear on and every single morning I assured her that I did.  Until I had finally had enough and decided that it was time to get a little rebellious.  I told her that I did and I didn't!  Imagine that!  I got halfway down the block and I hated the feeling, so I ran home and had to tell her the truth and go upstairs and put my underpants on. 

There were three very strong-willed children in that home, living with two exceptionally strong-willed parents.  It seemed as if there was always tension about who was right.  Mom and Dad had wonderful discussions (or arguments) about words.  They'd sit at the dinner table and go back and forth about a word until finally someone would head for the dictionary.  We didn't want to do that first - the entertainment was gone, but to end it ... the dictionary came out.

Well, what struck me this evening was as I was making the bed.  Because of the shape of the space here, the beds are up against walls.  As I was crawling across the bed to tuck that stupid top corner in (with both the bed pad AND the bottom sheet), I had a memory of my bedrooms.  I liked sleeping against the wall. Every time we moved into a new parsonage, I wanted to put my bed up against the wall.  Mom would argue with me and tell me that it would be more difficult to make my bed, but I would insist.  She'd warn me that she wasn't ever going to make my bed and I would assure her that I would do it.

I spent a lot of time cursing and huffing around trying to make those stupid beds while they were plastered up against those walls as a kid.  I did it. Because she told me not to.

When I moved into my very first apartment, Mom and Dad had driven me to Spencer, helped me unpack, got the bed built and then had to drive home - it was a 6 hour drive each way for them.  I remember looking at that bed.  For the first time I had a full-size bed - not a twin.  It was NOT going to be easy to make it unless I was smart.  So, I drug it around until it had space to move on both sides.

Mom never gloated and said, "I told you so."  Don't think that was normal behavior for her.  She often made sure that I knew she was right and I was wrrr ... wrrr ... wrrr.  Oh well - I wasn't absolutely correct.

But, as I huffed and puffed, crawling across the bed this evening to get it made, I laughed and laughed thinking about how much of her there is in me - and that as much as I hate being wrong, she hated it worse.  I'm pretty sure she would be standing over me as I made that bed, smirking.

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