MY MOTHER IS NOT FOR SALE

My mother has just exited our apartment, rugged up in sweaters and scarves on this cold and dreary day, to go to the supermarket.

For me.

Because she came around to help today so I could get some writing done.

This is after she folded the laundry and did the washing up – including rinsing the recycling things which, for some reason, I find a most annoying job.

No you can’t have her, she’s mine.

It’s remarkable what a grandchild will do to someone.

Not that my mother wasn’t helpful before – she would barely let me carry anything while I was pregnant, even when I pointed out that she had had four of her own and surely had to lift some combination of us three older ones while she was growing my youngest brother.

But now her level of help is just downright embarrassing.

And while I may be tempted to use this chance to read up on the tour de France (go Cadel) or – heaven forbid – catch up on Facebook, I wouldn’t dare risk it.

Can you imagine the karma if you skived off work while your mother went grocery shopping for you?

My washing machine would probably blow up and spray Q-poo nappies all about the laundry.

Or I’d spill something permanent and ugly all over the newly steamed carpet.

There’s no way the universe would let you get away with that sort of insensitivity.

But I do think it would be acceptable if I made myself a quick cup of coffee before I got started.

Bugger. 

We’ve run out of coffee, my mother’s out buying some now.

What’s taking her so long?

I wish she’d hurry up.