“Kristy, pick up. Pick up.“It was one of those calls I so desperately wanted the machine to handle. The kids were both presenting me with problems and I didn’t have a third hand, much less an ear and a quiet moment. But my mom was in California, and I’d — honestly — missed three of her previous calls. I was clearly duty-bound to pick this one up.”Hello?”"I’m sitting here outside at a restaurant in Chinatown. The weather is delightful.” I couldn’t decide whether I was grateful or bitter for her uncanny ability to transport me to her vacation spot at that precise moment. “Get a piece of paper and a pen. You won’t believe what I just got in my fortune. Write this down. ‘Idleness is the holiday of fools.’”"What?“”‘Idleness is — ” A combination of screams from my kids and a groan from me interrupted her. I was in no mood to take this call. My mother sensed as much and got annoyed herself. “Kristy, go handle that. I’ll tell you about this later.” She hung up, and the moment was lost.She was only trying to share a moment with me. I was wrapped up in my own. It happens all the time. One of us or the other. It’s part of what characterizes our relationship — unintentional slights that sting a little more, simply because they come from the person we love just a little too dearly, but innocently so. It’s hard to write about my relationship with my mother. It’s rocky, yes. I believe it would be easier to write about — to understand — if that rockiness had its roots in something truly sinister, or at least something entirely dysfunctional. But that’s not the case. Instead, I’m left to puzzle out our relationship with nothing or no one to blame but ourselves. Blame doesn’t get me very far. So, I’ve carved out my beliefs, my understandings, based on what I know of my mom and what I know of me. That’s the best I can do.A week later, after she’d arrived back from vacation, she called me again.”Write this down. ‘Idleness is the holiday of fools’.”I laughed. “That could be your mantra, mom.”"I know. That’s why I want you to write it down. I want you to paint it for me, so I can hang it up in my kitchen. You know how I am.”We tease my mother all the time about her utter inability to sit down. It’s almost manic, her daily hustle and toil. She goes from one task to the next, rarely resting in between. Even eveningtime knows no rest for this woman.Manic? Maybe. But, it’s endearing, too. It has to be, you see. Because, I can’t sit down, either.
