I re-read my last two posts and realized I've been focusing on death. Mine. As seen through my sons' eyes. It makes me wonder what else they have in store for me. First, a home with imitation gruel, then cremation, followed by a son wanting to plant a bench on top of me and then sit on it.
Haven't I been a good mother? Wasn't I pregnant with them for a collective total of five years? Didn't I nurse them for another fifteen years? Didn't I schlep them all over northern Colorado for orthodontist appointments, sports physicals, Little League, Big League, Cub Scouts, Boy Scouts, and scouting for my sanity? (Yes, I took them with me. I decided since they were the cause of the loss of my sanity, that they should have to come with me in the search for it.)
So why, I ask myself, are they dwelling on my demise? Didn't I sacrifice my girls, my figure, and my mental health for them? Didn't I give them the best years of my life? Didn't I suffer?
Gem for the day: when your sons start talking about what they're going to do with you when you die, consider going into the Witness Protection Program.