Y’all, I am tired. Tired. And it’s all my Mom’s fault.
The woman is a workhorse. When she knows something needs to get done, she methodically plans, schedules, works and the chore is done. Like, days in advance.
I, on the other hand, think about what needs to get done, then do something else until about 10 minutes before whatever needs to be done has to actually be done which is when I become a Tasmanian devil of activity getting things ready.
She is not a fan of that type of “planning.”
Yesterday made our colliding views of preparation crystal clear. We were shopping for supplies for the weekend and I was exhausted. Y’all, I don’t shop. Somehow I missed the shopping gene that flows so fluidly through my mother’s body. The woman can shop – she comparison shops like no one’s business – and she had me out a billion different stores looking for the various items I needed.
By the time we left the fifth store, I started complaining like a three-year old: “Are we almost done yet?” “I am tired!” “How much longer?” She chimed in with, “Well, I feel good about what we’ve gotten done here at the last minute.”
The last minute? What?
She said that with three full days before my first graduation guest arrives and she called it the last minute?
Quite honestly, I wasn’t planning to do the shopping until Friday morning. When she hears that, she’ll probably pass out.
I can say that never, in all my life, have I been so prepared for an event this far in advance. Ever. And if all that planning and preparation meant we were going to take it easy for the rest of the week, I’d be happy. But the woman keeps coming up with more projects. She is 25 years my senior and has more energy than the Energizer Bunny.
I am going to sleep for days next week. I’m definitely planning on that.
I came downstairs first thing this morning and I found her in the yard. I also found a load of laundry in the dryer and one going in the washer. I need to get her out of here - Sean already wonders how the shopping gene skipped a generation. Now he's going to wonder how the working-in-the-yard gene skipped me, too,