Beauty of the Mother

I spent the weekend hanging with the kids from the 52nd Street Project in a gorgeous house in the Hamptons. It’s a great project. Each adult gets paired up with one kid. Each kid writes a short play and the adult and kid rehearse the play, the adult directs. The adult also writes a short play in response to the kid’s play. The adult and kid also act in that play. At the end of several weeks of rehearsing and of spending a weekend away together we’ll put on a free show with all the plays.

Okay, so picture me in the sunny Hamptons, relaxing on a break from rehearsal, enjoying the smell of the solid pine house. Mama calls, which triggers my cell’s salsa ring, reserved for blood relatives. I answer. Her first words are a classic, “If Rome won’t come to you, you have to come to Rome, so I decided to call you.” Um, Hi?

After hellos and how are yous I asked about her health and she brushed that question aside to say she misses me more and more each day and “just when I think it’s not possible to miss you more, I DO. And I’m filled with an anguish.” Thinking I might convince mama to leave her 19th century shackles of anguish, I explain the miracle of email and webcams and how Rey and I chat with each other this way almost every day and we even chat with Rey’s sisters all using computer technology. (No, mama doesn’t have a computer, but if she showed some interest, I’d be happy to walk her through the purchase and set up). What did she respond to my explanation of the wonders of modern communication?

“Well, you should waste less time talking to Rey’s sisters and dedicate that time to me.”

“I gotta go, mom.”

“See, now you’re mad. You always get mad. Remember I won’t always be around.”

DUH! Guilt, meet Death. Death, meet Guilt. And you both know mama, right?