, , , ,

So, for once, I get my 96-year-old mama up, dressed, fed, medicated, and looking cute as a button for a trip to a funeral in Raleigh; and we’re actually gonna leave early rather than lat.  I place her at the kitchen table with instructions to stay put while I get dressed.

And while I’m dressing, she grabs a hot bottle of forbidden nail polish and sneaks out to the car with it.

I come down the stairs and out the door to find her painting her nails IN MY CAR, and she has spilled half the bottle down her very favorite dressy top.

I cuss, (which I rarely do) and yell “Dammit, Mama” while pulling the top off over her head, leaving her half nekkid in the car with Micah hiding his eyes in the back seat.

I rush inside for acetone, & pour it all over the shirt, but it’s like tinkling in the ocean. Not enough acetone in Virginia to break down that stuff. The top is permanently damaged. And our extra half hour plus 10 more minutes disappears.

I’m completely undone that I lost my patience with her, because I’ve promised myself that I won’t do that.

And then I think about the switching I’d have gotten for pulling such a trick in her lavender ’65 Bonneville Broagham with the purple satin seats and I’m glad I have not yet spilled a bottle of nail polish down my favorite shirt.

And when I do, I hope my sons will yell “Dammit, Mama” at me and not feel bad about it.