So Nice To Be Needed, Wanted or Both

Being needed is very different from being wanted. I’m kind-of opinionated with my kids, and my opinions are not necessarily wanted, but my skills very much needed and the two get stuck together. Like, have you noticed that a working mom’s sense of humor is always the first to go?

So I was needed, and called, and I packed up my opinions and we all took off for the hour drive to my daughter’s house. My work-like-a-fool-from-home daughter needed a fill-in because she had both a dental appointment and an eye exam, scheduling everything the same day.

I played with my one-year old granddaughter, squealing right alongside her. We’d go outside and take our toys with us–they look so different in the sunlight. Swaying tree branches caught our attention, and the chirping birds made us look up, like it was the most unusual sound of the year.

She knows me well, my daughter; she’s more like me than she realizes. It makes me smile. I know that a mother’s work is never finished, just recycles to another day. Jes knows I can’t just stand around on my head like a brick, and when I’m not playing or feeding or changing the baby, I need something to do.

So when I arrive, I’m not at all surprised by the laundry scattered across the bed, like a welcome mat, in a spare bedroom. I know she probably stayed up late getting it all washed up. It’s true–I need to stay busy, and folding clothes and putting them in their places is the kind of thing I do well. I match and fold and hang what seems ninety-seven articles of clothes, not counting socks, and carry them to the appropriate rooms where I lay them lovingly in their nests.

I fold everybody’s socks into tight little wads just like they like them, and tri-fold boxers and tee shirts, then poke them into their drawers so that my son-in-law can pull them out one by one like sticky notes.

Roger always knows when I’ve been there: “Oh, I have undershorts in my drawer. Your mom’s been here.” Or, “Oh, the laundry basket‘s empty–there’s no clothes in the dryer, the towels are in the linen closet–your Mom must have been here,” or “Oh, my slacks are hanging on their hangers…Oh, there’s a bed under all those clothes! Oh, I don’t have to stand at the foot of that bed just to dress for work in the morning, or peck around for two socks that match; 

“Oh, how I love my mother-in-law. . .”

Okay, okay, I’m embellishing! 

Jes left for her appointment. My laundry done, the baby sleeping, I looked around for some other busy-task I might take on. I noticed a little dust on the furniture, and figured I’d do that. I couldn’t find a rag, so I peeled off a few paper towels and dusted and whistled like the gal on the commercial who makes hiring her so appealing.

I got to the television/stereo cabinet, and thought, Hm, what would that commercial gal do? Maybe I should leave that alone. What if I accidentally hit a button on the remote? or DVD? and changed a station to something like classical instrumental banjo, or Scottish jigs? Would Roger know? Would he!

Still, the dusty cabinet beckoned. I came perilously close to swiping my finger along it. My mothering, testy finger reached out. James did that to me once. He couldn’t resist drawing a short, thick line in the dust. Hadn’t I decided we’d both learn something from that lesson: you can’t make me! I left his finger swipe there for a week–we both passed it fifty times each day before I calmed down, and very sincerely suggested that if he wiped his finger in the dust like that ever again, please make sure he got it all. I showed him where the dust cloths were kept. 

I walked away.

Just then my sweet little grandbaby woke up, her pretty cheeks puffed out in a wide grin, a light of surprise shining in her eyes. She showed me that she wanted me, even if, today, she didn’t need me.