On one of the (thankfully) rare occasions that Mother graced our state with her presence, she made quite an impression. And as always with Mother, the impression was less than positive. In this case, by the end of her visit, the impression was absolutely disgusting as well.
Mother was staying with Charles and I, and our daughter, and Mother had taken over my daughter’s room for the duration of her visit. What had once been a very clean, neat and organized room became a nightmare of chaos and disorganization. Mother had her things all over the floor, her suitcase was left wide open with the rest of her things (and, it would turn out, some of mine). It looked like a tornado had hit the room.
If you dared to pick up anything or asked if she needed your help to unpack, she went from zero to ninety in short order:
Why do you treat me like the village idiot? I am not an invalid! If you don’t like the state of this room, then don’t come in.
The old memories came flooding back.
Mother had planned this visit to be close to her birthday, so Charles and I decided to take her out to dinner. Mother came home and promptly went to bed, saying she didn’t feel well. The next morning, she not only didn’t feel well, Mother had thrown up all over the room. To this day I have no idea how she managed to vomit all over the bed, the curtains, the stuffed animals, the clothes, the floor and even on my little dog.
Happy Birthday, Mother!
Being Mother, she of course took no responsibility and chose instead to blame my dog. She said my dog had thrown up and that made her follow suit.
I spent the rest of the day doing laundry, cleaning my daughter’s room, and wondering why I had been blessed with a visit from the Vomit Queen.