Dear Luke,
First, let me say that I love you so much. More than words. With that said, I am writing this letter for you to read in the distant future, maybe 40 or 50 years from now. Perhaps you could read it the day you drop me off at the nursing home, so you can think of it every time you grimace at the thought of visiting me because the odor cocktail of pee-pee, bleach and cafeteria is more than you can stand. Please, keep this in mind:
On 12/7/08, you walked out of your room and said, "I puked." That was the understatement of the century. Son, you exploded. All over your bed, floor and train table. It.was.dripping. Your father could barely enter the room and because I didn't want to clean up after both of you, I sent him away and faced the aftermath of the vomit volcano myself.
I won't go into further detail about just how disgusting this clean up process was, but I will say that not a moment of the time I spent on my knees, scrubbing at the terracotta colored stains on my carpet, holding my breath to avoid the stench, gasping for air only when needed to stay conscious...not a moment of that time did I resent you. I felt sorry for your pale, shaky little body. I felt concerned that you might have a rough night ahead. I loved you as much in that moment as I do in the tender moments of your groggy morning smiles and bed time kisses.
Don't mistake this letter as an attempt to guilt you into caring for me personally as I age. Not at all. I am well aware that were you to do so, I would most likely end up the responsibility of your lovely wife. I pray for her often, and playing second fiddle to the big sister you think walks on water will be enough of a strain on your marriage, let's not add elder care. Go ahead, find me a good facility. But visit; visit often. Bring the kids. Stay awhile. Because after last night, you owe me one.
Your Loving Mother
First, let me say that I love you so much. More than words. With that said, I am writing this letter for you to read in the distant future, maybe 40 or 50 years from now. Perhaps you could read it the day you drop me off at the nursing home, so you can think of it every time you grimace at the thought of visiting me because the odor cocktail of pee-pee, bleach and cafeteria is more than you can stand. Please, keep this in mind:
On 12/7/08, you walked out of your room and said, "I puked." That was the understatement of the century. Son, you exploded. All over your bed, floor and train table. It.was.dripping. Your father could barely enter the room and because I didn't want to clean up after both of you, I sent him away and faced the aftermath of the vomit volcano myself.
I won't go into further detail about just how disgusting this clean up process was, but I will say that not a moment of the time I spent on my knees, scrubbing at the terracotta colored stains on my carpet, holding my breath to avoid the stench, gasping for air only when needed to stay conscious...not a moment of that time did I resent you. I felt sorry for your pale, shaky little body. I felt concerned that you might have a rough night ahead. I loved you as much in that moment as I do in the tender moments of your groggy morning smiles and bed time kisses.
Don't mistake this letter as an attempt to guilt you into caring for me personally as I age. Not at all. I am well aware that were you to do so, I would most likely end up the responsibility of your lovely wife. I pray for her often, and playing second fiddle to the big sister you think walks on water will be enough of a strain on your marriage, let's not add elder care. Go ahead, find me a good facility. But visit; visit often. Bring the kids. Stay awhile. Because after last night, you owe me one.
Your Loving Mother
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December 9, 2008 at 8:11 AM
Amen, sister!!!!!!!!!!! You made my day.:)