Is this payback?

I remember, when as a child, I needed something done NOW, I would pester and pester. Mom would tell me, "I will get to it when I'm ready," but I would keep pestering until Mom would give up, throw her arms up in the air and say "Ok. Ok. I will do it." The anger in her voice would make me wonder why I didn't stop when I knew I should have.

I thought the payback was when my own children did it to me. I was wrong.

When Mom needs something done, she needs it done now. It's an insistent, drop what you are doing and do this for me now type of demand. Or it could be slightly more subtle. She will want her hair curled and I am in the middle of sorting laundry, or looking for King's keys, or trying to find our granddaughter's favorite bathing suit bottom.

"Let me do (whatever) Mom and then I'll get to it."

I don't know if she can understand what I'm saying. I don't even know if she can hear me. But I will continue with my task. Mom will wait for a few minutes and then get the curling iron, sit in her recliner and start to curl her hair herself. It's not been plugged in. It's not warm. It could even be the big fat one my daughter used to straighten her long hair when she was 16. Doesn't matter.

I have to wonder if she knows what she is doing and hopes she can guilt me into dropping everything to curl her hair or if she is really that confused.

Today it was her laundry. A shirt was thrown in the dryer, the dryer worked for a short while and then turned itself off (it does that occasionally). When I discovered it, I turned the dryer back on, but unfortunately the shirt dried wrinkled. Badly wrinkled. Mom wanted to iron it. Now. Right now. And while she was at it she wanted to iron her nightgown as well.

I was trying to feed the dogs and do the dishes. She kept following me around the house with the shirt and night gown in her hands.

"I can iron it. Just show me where the ironing board is."

"I know that Mom, just let me finish these few pots and pans from last night."

"Do you keep it in the closet."

I finally threw my hands in the air and stormed off to get the ironing board. Even the dogs cowered in the corner.

I set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron and told Mom to wait a few minutes for the iron to warm up. She did.

Our Mangle was green. I shamelessly
borrowed this image from the internet. 

She ironed her nightgown. She even ironed her underwear. This isn't unusual for her. Some of my most vivid memories of Mom are of her standing at the ironing board or sitting at the old Mangle, ironing. She ironed everything: Dad's boxers, our sheets and pillow cases. Bras (but you had to be careful not to iron the hooks, they got hot). Dad's shirts. I really mean EVERYTHING. Granted these were the days before permanent press clothes, but socks and underwear? Really?

But I digress again.

She came into the living room and paced back and forth. "The shirt. The shirt."

I went into the kitchen. The shirt was a wrinkled mess. One that I might be inclined to throw back onto the washer to re-wash and then re-dry. But I knew she would not want that.

Mom indicated she wanted water for the shirt.

Are you kidding me? I knew she meant steam. So I filled the iron with water and when it started hissing I started ironing the shirt for her.

It's funny how she doesn't know I am her daughter, but she can remember how she likes things ironed. I quite obviously was not ironing the shirt to her liking. After a few shifts of her feet and feeble attempts to reach in and take the iron from me, I decided to let her take over and relinquished the iron.

We were supposed to be at Menards by 9 a.m. Doesn't look as though we are going to make it.

Paybacks are certainly hell.