This happened on Sunday. Yeah, I’m a little behind. Who are you to judge?
Me: Hello?
Older female caller: Hello?
Me: Hello?
OFC: Is this 123-123-1234?
Me: No, I’m sorry, you’re one digit off – it’s 2234, not 1234.
OFC: Oh, I’m sorry! I’m trying to reach my daughter-in-law to wish her a happy Mother’s Day, and you just didn’t sound like her.
Me: Oh, that’s ok.
OFC: Now, if you are a mother, I hope that you have a very happy, very blessed Mother’s Day!
Me, suddenly wanting to adopt OFC and make her a necklace out of macaroni: Oh! Well, bless you! Thank you! You have a happy Mother’s Day, too!
-fin-
I thought about explaining that I’m not exactly a mother, but I was too busy holding Geriatric Poodle. And emptying the dishwasher of Mr. Wonderful’s daughter’s colorful assortment of plastic cups, spoons and plates.
I don’t feel like a mom … but maybe this is how it sneaks up on you when you don’t have the benefit of, oh, say, giving birth to herald your arrival into the strange, new land of parenthood.
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3 comments:
Although it's hard to misinterpret giving birth, I think you've correctly interpreted small plastic cups in your dishwasher.
I adore old women. I really do.
Well, truly, it's not the messy placenta stuff that makes you a mom, anyway. Trust me on this one.
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