Mum got in two good ones in today’s phone conversation.
(1) Mum is 82 and has dangerously high blood pressure. Despite having lived in the same city for 35 years, she does not have a regular doctor, having been dissatisfied with every doctor she’s ever seen. Mum informs me that she is almost out of her blood pressure medicine and, “Your sister insists that I have to see a doctor before my prescription runs out… although I don’t know what she’d know about it.”
My sister is a registered nurse.
(2) Mum has one grandchild, my brother’s daughter, now 10. The child’s first name is a variation on a theme that is traditional on her mother’s side. Mum frequently calls her by a similar, but incorrect, name. The child’s middle name is my mother’s name, carrying on a tradition in our family. Mum informs me that the child’s middle name was in honor of one of her babysitter’s (same name as Mum). “But,” I say, “they didn’t know that woman until after “S” was born.” In her most condescending, exasperated voice, Mum tells me, “They didn’t name her until after she was born.”
I used to get upset. Any more I’m simply astounded.
