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,
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