My Saturday started off early—I had to drop one of my kids at an activity. After dropping her off, I went to the Gurdwara to meet my mum to pray (and get some breakfast). I drove my mum home afterwards and had a cup of tea with her.
As we sat at the table, gossiping, she suddenly leapt up. She went to the drying rack and brought in an item of clothing. Placing it on the table in front of me, she told me she had a problem.
She had accidentally put one of Dad’s boxers into a tub that had bleach in it, leaving a tie-dye effect in patches.
My mum then pulled out a load of black markers. She told me this was the second pair of his boxers she had ruined. The first pair, he had thrown away—after a rant.
Her idea? Colour in the bleached patches with the markers.
My argument? They were underpants. No one but my mum, God, and Dad ever gets to see them.
Oh—actually, now me.
Why was he being so precious about his boxers?
I tried to probe further. He was an 84-year-old man who only went to the Gurdwara, the doctor’s/hospital, the shops, and home. Hmmm… was there a woman at the Gurdwara who had connected with his wandering eyes? My mum would kill her! She is a very jealous woman.
Back to the markers. She opened up the green one.
She said she was going to try and colour them black.
With green?
She nodded her head, saying, “Right, right,” and then opened red!
She wasn’t even looking at the colour—she was trying to determine it by the nib.
I stepped in, found a black Sharpie, and started colouring the pants back to black. She made approving noises—equilibrium had been restored.
As I was leaving, I glanced at my phone and saw a text message from my husband:
“I’ve just twisted my back. In agony 😭.”
Fuck.
I didn’t want to go home now. This is a really shitty situation. When one parent is out of action, the ‘surviving’ well parent has to picks up all the slack.
I got into the house and heard him shuffle-walking in the kitchen in his stolen hotel slippers.
Okay. At least he’s up.
I did a quick radar scan. He had said he was going to vacuum and mop. Judging by the state of the house, the injury must have occurred before these activities took place.
Damn it.
He said I wouldn’t understand the level of his pain.
Of course not. But I did pass two of his children through the conveyor belt I like to call my vagina!
My advice? “Keep mobile and do some meal prep for dinner.”
Now I’m hiding upstairs—he can’t do stairs. 😆
Leave a Reply