I don’t know what to write about today.
I’m holed up in my old bedroom at my parents’ home in Brampton. My wife, daughter and I are visiting my mom. My dad’s in Jamaica until mid-March and we’re here to hang out and help where we can.
I told the rental car rep that those were my plans and he called me “a good son.”
Since we got here my mom brushed and styled Zadie’s hair. She played with Zadie while my wife and I rested. My mom prepped dinner while Zadie, Jess and me walked to Party City and Centennial Mall.
Dinner was ready when we returned and it was good — ribs and stir fry. My mom told Jess and me that she would put Zadie to bed so we could watch a movie or go out for a treat. I put Zadie to bed because she was cranky and I washed the dishes. We returned home with Blizzards from DQ. But I realized something along the way.
I may be a good son. But my mom is a great mom. We came to spend time with her and she’s working overtime to help us relax.
I’m almost 40 but every trip home results in regression. I’m OK with that.