The Glib Martyr

I was looking forward to my vacation too dearly. Too sweetly. My mom fell and broke her ankle and needed surgery.

Now, my mom and I, we’re like Shirley McClaine and Meryl Streep in “Postcards from the Edge” only without money, showtunes or humor. I only wish my mom had a Silent Stan by her side and our biggest issue was her fading stardom. She has another hero, my sister Beezy, but poor B has her own limitations.

I’d take my mom into my house, but, well, see above “Postcards from the Edge” reference. The real issue is that my house is tiny and hard to access, and Mom was a cantankerous cripple even before the accident, but I imagine we’ll have to really step up and do our fair share too. Waiting until your late thirties/early forties to have children means having to change diapers on your kids AND your mom.



About Mrs Odie

Friendly Pedant; Humble Genius
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3 Responses to The Glib Martyr

  1. It’s why we’re called the “Sandwich” generation. Probably you more than me. But the part about older parents? I’m right there.

  2. Randac says:

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