Mom, Can You Hand Me _____________?


The Mom-Mobile


I am driving my dust-coloured mini-van. I keep my eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel. The other hand flails about searching the glove compartment/my purse/the floor of the van.

Mom, can you hand me the IPOD antenna?

The baby wipes. A napkin. A bandaid!

The bottle of water rolling around on the floor. Your milkshake. A bite of your donut?

A pen, please. Nail clippers? Ouch, a sliver! Tweezers!

Your purse. Money!  The thingamadoodle. You know what I mean.

Mom, did you hear me?

I have contorted my body into a position that my chiropractor would not appreciate, a twisting yoga-for-drivers pose, which, improperly executed, might mean a hefty ticket for careless driving. Or worse.

I set my jaw and answer.

“You’ll have to wait a moment until I can pull over.”

This is a dream, of course. An aspiration. Not only do I struggle with delaying their gratification, I struggle with delaying my own, to deny myself, even for a moment, the sweet relief that comes from responding to their needs, however trivial.

And the Virgo tendency to do things immediately, organize and multi-task.

What can I say?

Pass me the kleenex box? An extra set of hands? A valium?