My daughter and I are at odds.
Ever since I had a bad fall and almost cracked my skull, she's been giving me orders. Do this and don't do that.
Last weekend she told me I had to stay home. I couldn't go anywhere.
I told her that she's a meany and that all the other daughters let their mothers go out on the weekend.
"Tough," she said.
She said she didn't care if all the other mothers jumped off cliffs, I had to stay home and recuperate.
"You can rant and rave but you cannot go out yet."
"I mean it," she said. "Stop arguing. If you don't behave, I'm going to make you come over here for the whole weekend and stay in the white room."
Now that was a low blow. She knows my favorite room is the blue room, not the white room.
In the blue room, I can look out the large bedroom window at the fishing pond, the stone fence, and the wide expanse of land and trees, a picturesque scene.
Not so, the white room. It looks out onto the plain street. And the blinds are always closed and the curtains drawn.
I stormed to my computer and emailed a retort. I told her she is a hateful daughter.
After the accident that put me in the emergency room, she and my son-in-law drove to Cape to bring me home. On the drive home, I was so sick I could hardly hold my aching head up.
I was dressed in borrowed green scrubs because I had become nauseated in the emergency room and soiled my new tee shirt. I looked like the Jolly Green Giant but I was far from jolly. I did receive some sympathetic looks when I had to stop at a service station to use the bathroom. My daughter was holding onto me, leading me all the way.
At her house, my daughter babied me, bought me special bland foods of potato soup, Jello, puddings and yogurt.
Every time I moved, she was right there to see if I needed anything.
After a couple of days, she drove me to my home, reluctant to leave me.
I told her I'd be just fine as soon as the dizziness passed.
She checked on me regularly, giving more instructions.
"Stay home, rest, read, take it easy, don't drive,"
Daughters can be such a pain.
This is the same daughter that I changed her diapers, wiped her nose, cried on her first day of school, endured her teen years, and cried again when she left home. Now she's reversing our roles, wanting to give me curfews and time outs.
I keep telling her I can take care of myself. After all, I wasn't born yesterday.
She does agree with me on that last part.
Actually, as you may have guessed, my daughter and I have a great relationship. We are best friends.
She grew up a military brat, always a part of the military family, until my son-in-law retired from the Air Force.
But my belief is, once military, always military.
Both her children were born at military installations, the youngest at Blytheville Air Force Base.
Eighteen years ago my daughter and son-in-law entered the civilian world and moved to Northeast Arkansas, near me.
That, in itself is a blessing.
But it's getting harder and harder to maintain my role.
Me mother, she daughter.