The Pant's State of Co-Dependence.

I may be a parent myself, but when I'm sick I revert straight back to a childish state of co-dependence. And so it was that yesterday I packed The Daughter and myself into my faithful Wanda and made the hour's trip to my parental homestead. I drove with the window open, and pulled over three times to dry retch onto the steamy bitumen.

The Mother was taken aback when she heard my hooter sound desperately at her gate - she even came out to greet me.

The Mother: Why are you here?

The Pant: Hi, Mom.

TM: Yes, yes, hi. But why are you here?

TP: Sick. Think I might be (mock charge) pregnant.

At which point, The Mother burst into a fit of laughter so intense she had to cross her legs to prevent tears from running down her inner thighs.

The Mother: Pregnant! Stop! You're so funny. (Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.). You need to um... you know... to be, you know, with-child. Pregnant. Pant, you are such a card.

I did not feel like a card. Nor did I feel like the rich Chicken Korma she prepared to "settle" my stomach. (I think she may have sadistic tendencies: have daughter feeling nauseous, must go to great lengths to get her to up-chuck.)

And so I declined supper (but snuck out to The Maid's room for a serving of samp and beans). And I declined a glass of red. It is when I declined the wine that she began to honestly worry. The change in attitude to my state was profound.

The Mother: I read your blog. Maybe the salmon wasn't that fresh after all. Let me phone The BF to check on her state of health.

(The BF was fine. And so The Mother began to worry more.)

TM: Okay. Are you pregnant?

The Pant: Not unless it's The Second Coming.

TM: Hmmmmm.... Doubtful.  But not impossible - you are my child, after all.  Hmmmm.... I know! Maybe it's a bug. Maybe my own offspring are human after all, and they, too, get sick.

TP: It would appear so.

She then leaned toward me and brushed my forehead with her lips (Moms are super rad, aren't they?)

TM: You're really hot!

TP: That's what all the men say, Mom. But I'm in no mood for flattery.

TM: No, you're not hot like that (thanks, Mom). You've got a temperature. You're not such a prima donna! My, oh my.

And that's when her compassion kicked in. She tucked me into bed - her bed - with a You magazine, and left me with the promise that "Dad can sleep in the spare room, and you can sleep with Mommy tonight".

A good 10 hours sleep next to my Mommy Darling, and I woke up feeling like a regular human merely being. My mom is all kinds of rad. Especially when I'm really sick.