Mis-Communication 101

My youngest son and I recently had a conversation which would have been interesting to hear, from the outside, listening in. I was chattering away, knowing (in my own mind) what I was talking about. Meanwhile, my son was very quiet. I now believe he thought if I just kept talking, he would eventually figure out what I was saying.

As I have mentioned before, the main floor of our home is in a state of chaos and confusion to those who have not walked in my shoes. Not only have I held onto a good grip of where I've moved everything but I am finding things which have been lost to me for a very long time.

Thus, I was describing the temporary home of our pot holders. I opened the cupboard door, told my son I had moved them and pointed to their new location. He was very quiet, so I tried hanging them from their original hanging spot while continuing to ramble on about the pot holder's new home. It was then, that the cloud of misunderstanding lifted. "Oh, that is what you are talking about? I was going to ask if they were under the oven mitts." Apparently, I use the term pot holders and oven mitts interchangeably, when indeed my son was correct.

We chuckled and moved on through our conversation.

He was a captive audience to my rambling due to the fact that he was boiling up some spaghetti noodles. He has done this once before but that was a very long time ago. So I was bestowing everything I know about boiling noodles as he made his way through his second maiden voyage in this new terrain. "I usually add just a bit of oil to the water to keep the noodles from sticking together..." When he asked how much, I answered as anyone who is is as skilled as I, in the art of culinary expertise, "Oh, just a glug or so." There was an undetectable silence which filled the air.

Then came the need for a plate for his spaghetti and meat sauce creation. He pulled a plate out of the cupboard, covered in reno-dust. New to us reno dust. I told him, "Just give the plate a swoosh and it'll be fine".

At this point, my son shook his head with a smile. "A swoosh? .... A glug? ... Pot holders? ..." He commented on how hard it was to follow the directions on the box when I was giving him all of this added information in a lingo he didn't comprehend.

We laughed.

Then I recalled the time I made barley soup with Mom. She found a recipe that sounded good and she kept adding "what she would do" to the instructions. Then she tuckered out on me and I was left with a half prepared batch of soup, with half the instructions being those from Mom which did not correspond with the written recipe. I was so lost.

Hmmm ... maybe I have a bit of Mom interwoven into me in ways I would have never guessed. I smiled as I told my son the barley soup story.

Life goes around and back. We find traces of who we are, within those who have been a part of our lives. The lingo, the unspoken words and little things learned along the way. They lie beneath the surface and make an appearance when you least expect them.

I have so many stories to tell Mom. This little ditty would have made my weekly letter to her. And she would have known all my lingo. We spoke the same language, Mom and I.

This memory is for you, Mom.