Momz

November 18, 2012

As many of you might know, or have surmised, Momz and I don’t have the best relationship. I’ve visited my hometown three times in as many months and didn’t tell her I was coming for any of those trips.

She’s now visiting my town. Because my brother has kids.

Apparently Bro and SIL went out tonight and planned to leave the kids with her. This is something they didn’t do before – they didn’t want to leave the kids alone with her. Momz doesn’t see well so is not the best babysitter. But the kiddos are a bit older now so I guess they figured she could handle it. I wasn’t so sure.

I mean, would the kids die or would they burn the house down? Probably not. But I went over both to do my duty and see Momz and to help her babysit.

It’s a good thing I did. Bro and SIL made tacos before they went out. Even with dinner ready, I was still the one to rally the kiddos, make sure they ate both protein and vegetables, clean up and get them to bed. Momz did almost NOTHING. She managed to serve herself some tacos but that was about it.

Strike One.

Strike Two requires some background information. Momz has been collecting family “heirlooms” most of her adult life. Anytime someone in her family has died (read great aunts, grandparents) the majority of the stuff has ended up in her basement, mostly because she had the space to store it. She’s apparently very attached to family furniture and other items that have been ‘passed down.’ Now I’m as curious as the next person about my ancestors and I love history. But I do not need a bunch of worthless crap sitting in my garage simply because it’s been ‘passed down.’ I am acutely aware of this right now since my garage is currently full of such items from Pops.

But she is DETERMINED to give me, or my brother, a crystal punch bowl from the 1600’s that is broken. It is broken in such a manner that it apparently requires yearly gluing just for display purposes. Don’t get me wrong, I agree that it is fascinating that my family has been in this country that long. And that they bothered to pass down a punch bowl. But I don’t need to own said punch bowl and store it in my garage for my (potential) kids to find when I die.

And this is just ONE of the family “heirlooms” she’s trying to unload. And it’s also the umpteenth time I’ve heard a similar story about some inanimate object that needs saving. Would you expect your great great grandchildren to be using you current coffee table? It’s just stuff. It can’t replace people. But she seems to think all the junk in her basement are really antiques that are worth quite a lot. She apparently didn’t want to mention this punch bowl via email because she was afraid someone would intercept the email and then try to steal the punch bowl. Priorities, please.

Strike Two.

Hospitalists are going to kill her. She’s had ONE personal bad experience with a hospitalist (with my aunt) and she’s heard from a friend that a hospitalist killed her friend’s mother. She’s convinced that, if she gets sick enough to require hospitalization, the hospitalist will kill her. Mainly because she thinks the hospitalist will give her some drug she can’t take. Because, you see, she can’t take many drugs. No, I don’t mean she’s allergic. I mean she claims that ibuprofen makes her drunk. Her body reacts differently to common drugs and this will surely kill her.

Her fear of hospitalists is new. But her contention that normal drugs produce weird reactions is an ongoing topic. This is why she chooses alternative medicine virtually every time. She prefers clothespins on her ears to novacaine for dental work. She won’t take ibuprofin. Don’t even mention antihistamines or she’ll freak out. She no longer eats any sugar nor drinks any alcohol (no exceptions) because she’s borderline diabetic and might have a slight fatty liver.

Strike Three for paranoia.

And lastly, I think most people won’t find this bad but, it irks me. She refers to our efforts to have a child as our ‘project.’ I think this must be her way of being discreet. But I really don’t like that she calls it a project. It’s not a high school science project. To me, that word minimalizes what it really is. I guess she means well, but… it’s not a project. It’s a kid (potentially).

You’re Out. Or rather I was. On that note, I left.

And that’s just today. You don’t even want to know how many strikes she had in the past.

Round Two later this week.

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