There is no typical day. If mom is coming with me, there has to be constant commercials that we're going to be leaving, in 20,15,10....and because I have to chivvy her along, I have to be completely ready before I start her off.
Unattended, she may put on a sleeveless shirt in January, or slippers in the snow. And we must never seem rushed, because flurry gets her off balance.
Everybody has to be thrilled to be going, because her emotional antenna
are very sensitive. My poor teenagers must feel like Disney stars,
always smiling and cheerful.
Conversely, mom has no patience with delay. She cuts the line at the bank, taps her foot and sighs in the grocery line. Servers in restaurants, cashiers, cars at red lights--they're all too slow. And if I tell her I'll be back in a minute, it had better be 30 seconds, or she'll go looking.
Time is no longer linear: no arrow here. Our experience of time is truly like a river, sometimes fast, sometimes nearly stagnant, winding back on itself and murky. Silt filled and weedy, we struggle to push through.
Conversely, mom has no patience with delay. She cuts the line at the bank, taps her foot and sighs in the grocery line. Servers in restaurants, cashiers, cars at red lights--they're all too slow. And if I tell her I'll be back in a minute, it had better be 30 seconds, or she'll go looking.
Time is no longer linear: no arrow here. Our experience of time is truly like a river, sometimes fast, sometimes nearly stagnant, winding back on itself and murky. Silt filled and weedy, we struggle to push through.
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