Mamma mia, here we go again

ABBA / GOLD













I listened to the message several times. The usual array of emotions stirring: annoyance, concern, anger, guilt. I might have returned the call, too, but for the second message. The second message, immediately following the first, was not the tearful, helpless plea of the first, but the usually dismissive, cold tone. The second message my mother left on my answering machine that morning said to disregard the first, well, at least some of the first. I was to forget the heart wrenching weepiness, but not the message.


The message was clear and succinct: her house was out of control No news there, it was often in a state of chaotic mess with paper literally knee deep. She was too tired and overwhelmed to deal with. Therefore, I should take a few days, preferably a week, and come help her clean it up.


This was not a new request, but a request that surfaced periodically. Sometimes it was under the guise of organization. It wasn’t that she wanted me to clean, it was that she needed help with figuring out a structure, system, or configuration of kitchen, closet, files. Sometimes it was that she was planning on ‘getting rid of’ the general content of a room, and my presences was needed in case there was something I should want. I’d been down this road more times than I could count and it was always the same.


I’d arrive early in the morning. I’d wait, impatiently while other things took precedent over our scheduled tasks: errands, work, outgoing telephone calls. When we finally got down to business, regardless of how the event was couched, she’d lead me to a mess and look expectantly. Then for the next few hours, she’d wait and watch, prompting me with “what’s that?” or “Put this over there.” For hours I would fetch and carry, repeating, “I don’t know if you need this or not, Ma.” I don’t know what this is for, from, goes to…


Nothing would ever be cleaned because nothing was ever allowed to be discarded. Of course, with nothing cleaned, there was also the pressure to return again… and again.


Now, the request was not only that I come engage in this exercise of frustration, but that I take time out of work to do it. Time, which she knew I was guarding and doling out with great care. I hated the people I currently worked for and was using the time to interview.


She knew that any time I had was spent job searching. She’d watched my hair go grey, commenting about it frequently and an ulcer develop because of my current employer and yet, here we were again: a tearful telephone call asking me to take a few days to come help her clean her house.