verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Saturday, October 23, 2010

But I Can Still Write About It.

My Mom and Dad

See how they are both smiling?  Well, that's not what they'll be doing when they read this. They will kill me for this.  Absolutely kill me.  I just sent them an email promising I would stay in the back seat and shut up.  And I will. But technically this is writing and not talking, and so technically I'm not breaking a promise. And as long as I don't get too specific about anything (like their h**lth) then I think they'll recover from my blog-o-blabber (as well as from their unspecified recent "things" having to do with their h**lth). 

Oh me, oh my.  Parents these days.  The things they do.  As they get, um, more mature, they also get a little more, um, shall we say certain of themselves.  [Older and stubborn are words that don't belong here, whatsoever. No siree, nope, no way. ] Recently when they both experienced not-to-be-mentioned unspecified "events" that required the attention of folks who happen to do "rounds", they became as impenetrable as the Pentagon,  expert in all matters and, after years of adversarial cut-throat NYT crossword puzzle stand-offs against each other, they were suddenly, well, like an old married couple.  On the same page. Totally on the same page. 

And if you happen to be a daughterslashblogger who is trying to stay in the back seat and remain supportively quiet from a slightly long-ish distance away, even though it looks like they have all their hands firmly on the big steering wheel, there are moments when it doesn't quite feel like it.  I mean, don't get me wrong--I'm all for risk-taking. Try to get a seat at Arnold's on a Saturday night or--I dare you-- try to wedge into that spot just outside of Mark's in P-town, or even try to sneak popcorn while Maeve is asleep.  Go ahead--go for it.   But my parents have a way of suddenly ( and I mean suddenly) going from all conservative-y about what they do, to getting all "wild" with things I wish they could approach in a softer, more measured way--especially those matters having to do with their h**lth.   

So here I sit in the back seat. I'm keeping one eye shut on this trip.  I'm trying to hide the fact my knuckles are white from gripping the door handle and I've bitten all my nails.  My right foot keeps hitting the invisible brake hard enough to drive it through the floor. I'd like a smoke and I don't smoke. Making this a bit more nerve-wracking is the fact I happen to teach "driving" for a living--the very same kind of "driving" that might (I only said might) be helpful in caring for their (fill-in-the-blank) circumstances pertaining to their h**lth.  But alas, I am still the kid (a very gray and menopausal 50-year-old kid) and I can already see that they have things under (their) control and so that pretty much leaves me one thing to do.

(Closing eyes and assuming lotus position)
Innnnh--Hey, up there! I can drive anytime you want to take a little break.  If you want.  Just sayin'.


  1. I'm not sure from this post if they've actually told you about their health problems or not, but pass along from ol' three-toes-on-one-toe that if they aren't anything but scrupulously honest about their health--especially at their stage in life, it could absolutely suck for those left behind. My stepfather either completely hid my mother's condition from us, or was so freaking self-absorbed that he never noticed. This caused a rather frantic, painful, and tearful year for not only my mother, but my brother, myself, and our families after he died.

    Wow. didn't realize I was still so angry about this. But I'm just sayin.'

  2. I'm trying to imagine the response and can't. I guess if you show up for work tomorrow, I'll know