Sleeping at Mom's House
It seems to happen most when I'm standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, looking out the window at the fence, a little of the garden, the tree I planted 15 years ago, balls and grill and lawn chairs and all the paraphenalia that comes with the suburban back yard. Maybe the sun is just right. I blink, step outside my body for a minute, and looking back in, find myself thinking, "I am the homeowner. The mother. The one in charge." Responsible for all that happens here. The done and undone things are at my mercy. And then blink again--How in God's name did I come to be here? I am completely taken by surprise sometimes, by the fact that I running the show here, and scared shitless that at any second I will be exposed as completely unqualified for the job. I am superwoman one minute and a complete imposter the next. Today I go to work, mow the yard, buy toilet paper, pay bills, help with homework, make decisions from huge to inconsequential--a hundred or so responsible things--and then I may toss and turn the whole long night, questioning whether or not I can do these things tomorrow.
And this is why, when I go to my mother's house, I can lie down and sleep the sleep of the dead. It never fails. I have never lived in the house she lives in now, it has never been my "home", but it is where my mother is. When I go there, for a brief time she is the mother, not me. She is making me a pallet on the floor with two or three soft quilts and pillows. She is saying lie down and take a nap if I'm tired. She is ensuring the safety of my sons. She is answering their questions. She is making tomato soup for lunch. She is chopping some fresh herbs to put in it because she is the mother and wants things to be nice, to be good, safe, delicious, taken care off, turned off, unplugged, fixed, washed, fed, filed, swept, in order. I lie down on the quilts and I am almost instantly asleep. I wake up an hour later, as if from the dead, wondering where I am. I wake up slowly to the realization that after I eat my tomato soup, I need to gather my kids and take on the responsibility of finding shoes and coats, driving them safely home, and all that follows.
And this is why, when I go to my mother's house, I can lie down and sleep the sleep of the dead. It never fails. I have never lived in the house she lives in now, it has never been my "home", but it is where my mother is. When I go there, for a brief time she is the mother, not me. She is making me a pallet on the floor with two or three soft quilts and pillows. She is saying lie down and take a nap if I'm tired. She is ensuring the safety of my sons. She is answering their questions. She is making tomato soup for lunch. She is chopping some fresh herbs to put in it because she is the mother and wants things to be nice, to be good, safe, delicious, taken care off, turned off, unplugged, fixed, washed, fed, filed, swept, in order. I lie down on the quilts and I am almost instantly asleep. I wake up an hour later, as if from the dead, wondering where I am. I wake up slowly to the realization that after I eat my tomato soup, I need to gather my kids and take on the responsibility of finding shoes and coats, driving them safely home, and all that follows.
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