Last night, my mother totally rocked my world by calling me on Skype. I was so happy to see her beautiful face that I didn’t think to tell her how impressed I was that she made Skype work.
We talked about wedding gowns, and James, and about having patience, and all our money woes. I told her about school and she sipped her wine as I ate some yogurt. We were both in our pajamas, and it almost felt like it does on the first night I go home to her house and we snuggle into great grandma’s homemade afghans in the living room and whisper all our lost stories to one another.
Moose then knocked over a vacuum cleaner, which switched on just as I grabbed him, and in a fit of blind terror he sank his claws into the nearest surface he could find to launch himself off of. Incidentally, that surface turned out to be my left hand.
One fistful of cat hair and my blood later, I was in full-on hysterics. Did you know that I don’t know how to turn our vaccuum cleaner off? I didn’t know that, either, until last night. Moose was still having a small heart attack over The Sucky Monster and I was clutching my wounded hand with my other hand and howling. I didn’t realize that THAT MUCH PAIN could emanate from such tiny fingers. The things you learn when the cat gets scared.
Mom got to witness the whole thing via Skype, and I bet she won’t be calling me back anytime soon. Needless to say, she talked me through the pain and stressed the importance of cleaning everything immediately. Initially I thought I’d be needing stitches, but after Mom’s recommended salt water bath and some seriously applied pressure, the bleeding slowed enough for me to skip the trip to the hospital and just call James for first aid supplies instead.
The verdict: Two bone-deep puncture wounds, three pretty deep scratches and one semi-superficial arm laceration. Moose and I made as much peace as we’re going to this morning, and I’m probably going to request another Skype date with my mother this evening, with promises that James will be the one to keep the cats off the vaccuum.
Because after the semi-disastrous state that my life seems to perpetually find itself in lately, I’d do just about anything to get back to the place where it feels like I’m on my mother’s couch with a glass of wine, wrapped in a homemade afghan, whispering all my secret stories to the woman I respect and admire above everyone else.
But don’t tell her I said that. She’ll never let me live it down.
-M.
