Today my Facebook memory brought up this picture of my mom and me at a wedding four years ago. I labeled it, “Having a drink with the woman who taught me how.”
My mom happened to call today and tell me about tripping on the front porch stairs and landing on her hand. My dad brought her ice to help with the swelling. When that melted she asked for more. He informed her, “If I give you more ice, there won’t be enough for your gin and tonic.”
She said, “Never mind. The hand is fine.”
I sometimes joke with people that I was weaned on alcohol. It’s probably not too far from the truth. My mom told me once she was at work and on the phone with my sister. She got a nasty look from the woman across from her for telling my sister to rub whiskey on her teething baby’s gums. It’s totally what she did with us. One can’t help but wonder if she was correctly diagnosing the cause of our crying.
But my favorite mom and alcohol story was when my parents were visiting. We were having company that evening so my mom declined her before-dinner cocktail saying she’d have her wine with dinner but wanted to have a drink with the guests too. I asked the logical question of why she couldn’t do both.
You might think her answer was that she couldn’t hold three drinks, but oh no, not my mother. She responded, “Because it’s Lent and I can only have two drinks during Lent.”
Yes, folks. That was her big Lenten sacrifice: not imbibing more than twice a night.
Now let me be clear that my mother is no where near an alcoholic. If she were, I wouldn’t be joking about it. She’s just of that generation where you have a cocktail and then wine with dinner. I, on the other hand, rarely drink because I frankly don’t care. When my parents visit, declining drinks is looked upon with disdain. I always sleep well on the nights they’re in town.
I love my mom. She’s a treasure, and everyone who meets her agrees.
Okay, Mom. If you happen to read this, don’t get a swollen head. There may not be enough ice for it.