Once a mom, always a mom

My thirty-something son, Hot Wheelz, called to ask if during my short visit I’d mind helping tile his kitchen. A working vacation was not what I had in mind, but I was happy to help.

It didn’t go real well. The wet saw blade used for making the cuts in the ceramic kept coming loose. My son did his best to hold his temper, but by the time we had completed three-fourths of the kitchen leaving a concrete strip of irregular sizes around the cupboards, he was ready to call it quits for the day.

I’m a bonafide member of the 80%-done club. In my bedroom, three walls have baseboard, one does not. The double French door into the office only opens on one side. This same son had helped lay a hardwood floor in my home. It’s beautiful — with the exception of the unfinished transition where carpet meets wood. Two years later a frayed carpet cut freehand with a utility knife still overlaps uneven planks. With this record, probability of a bi-level kitchen in Hot Wheelz’ home for many, many months to come was high.

“Let’s finish,” I encouraged as cheerfully as I could.

“Let’s not,” he grumbled.

“At least use up the thin set adhesive I mixed.” We’d finished laying the whole tiles and were left with an open strip of concrete that hugged the half-built breakfast bar. Each tile required additional cuts.

“Come on, there’s only space for twelve more,” I counted, then shot him the look. Any child and mother are familiar with the one I’m talking about. “After all I do for you, it wouldn’t kill you do the rest,” I said, adding the finishing touch to the look.

“How come you always resort to guilt to get me to do what you want?”

I was tempted to bribe him with a Happy Meal.  “Well, I still have a little mortar left.” I spread the mixture over the concrete with a trowel. I was now down to nine tiles.

“Look, I already have four tiles measured.” He looked at the Sharpie lines. “You want to check my measurements?” I lucked out. They were spot on.

I blended a little more thin set. He scowled at me, but made the cuts.   My younger daughter had grimaced just like that when I’d asked her to pick up her mess one day, then said, “Okay, I’ll clean my room, but I’m gonna be in a bad mood!” 

Only three more tiles but the bucket of adhesive was empty. “Okay, I’m out,” I announced. “We can quit now.”

“No way,” he said.

No eighty percent today. Once a mother, always a mother.  Do I know my son, or do I know my son?

Related posts:

1. How NOT to parent