Uh oh, Ma’s coming
I just heard that song. You know the one. In fact, I’m sure that
at one time or another, all of us who have them have sung it to
ourselves. By
”
them,
”
I mean Mothers in Law.
My mother in law, Donna, or Ma, as I was invited to call her,
before her son and I were even married, has a knack of making me
begin to hum that old song,
”
Mother In Law
”
by Ernie K-Doe, when I know that she is coming for a visit.
Uh oh, Ma’s coming
I just heard that song. You know the one. In fact, I’m sure that at one time or another, all of us who have them have sung it to ourselves. By “them,” I mean Mothers in Law.
My mother in law, Donna, or Ma, as I was invited to call her, before her son and I were even married, has a knack of making me begin to hum that old song, “Mother In Law” by Ernie K-Doe, when I know that she is coming for a visit.
Ma’s great. She is generous to a fault, adores the kids, and The Husband jokes that she loves me more than him. She’s also a perfectionist.
Picking her up at the airport in Fairbanks, where we were living in icy splendor for The Husband’s overseas (not served in the continental U.S.) tour in the service, I was anxious to show her how well were faring in the frozen north. Never mind that now it was summer, and the sun barely grazed the horizon before it began its arc back to the center of sky.
Ma was barely settled in, two hours after a long flight from Connecticut to Alaska and she was puttering around. Never one to sit still, it’s always best to just let her do her thing.
I’d ventured outside to start the grill for the nightly barbecue, since it was always so much faster to cook on the grill, and you could be sure you’d run into neighbors with the same idea.
Tonight was no exception. The neighbors asked how things were going on my side of the wall.
“Great!” I said, smiling.
Realizing that I needed a platter for the grilled steaks, I walked back into the house.
I can hear the familiar hum of the dishwasher. I smile to myself. Ma’s on the loose. She’ll foresee any mess and make sure she gets to it before I do.
Rounding the corner to the kitchen, I hear some frothy, bubbling sounds and then a copious cascade of water hitting the floor.
“What the …(insert your favorite expletive here)?” I implored the empty room. Suds were pouring from the dishwasher at an unbelievable rate, and the crumbs on my floor were in danger of being washed into the living room, by the waterfall.
Ma wandered into the kitchen to see what damage…er…help, she could offer.
“What did you put in the dishwasher?” I asked, before she could say a word. Strangely, she didn’t look surprised at what was unfolding in front of her.
“Soap. You know, that stuff in the cabinet under the sink. That green stuff.” She said, surveying the scene.
“Ma, that’s dish soap!”
“I know, that’s why I put it in there.” she told me, as if I were simple.
I remembered that Ma didn’t have a dishwasher. She’d only just recently gotten a microwave. We’d tease her that she must’ve been afraid that the microwave would steal her spirit if she cooked anything in there.
By this time, I’d flipped the lock open on the dishwasher to stop any more errant suds from escaping.
In the commotion, I’d managed to grab the lone dishtowel, which I’d thrown down and was now pathetically floating on the sea of dispersing soap and fast-cooling water.
The mop was on the other side of the room, and I considered swimming for it.
The Husband appeared as if by magic, his eyes wide and his arms full of towels. I snatched them from him and threw them to the floor in a heap, scarcely noticing that they were the “good ones” from the guest bathroom. Meaning, a matched set.
I got down on my hands and knees and began pushing the water around. The towels weren’t absorbing it fast enough.
Ma looked down at me. “Well, now you know your floor is finally clean.”
I looked up at her, while Ernie K. sang his song.
