For example, this morning, Dearest Son and I went grocery shopping. On the way into the parking lot, we saw my mom leaving in her cute little car with her cute little vanity plate and half a dozen Yankees stickers. I was coming into the parking lot; she was going out. “It’s Grammy!” I said, and called, “Mom! Hi, Mom!” Her windows were open; so were mine. I waved my long gorilla-like arm. “Mom! Mom!”
“Grammy! Hi, Grammy!” Dearest yelled.
Nothing Nada. She didn’t even flick an eyelash in our direction. I’m telling you, I could’ve touched her car.
“Ouch,” Dearest said. “She is stone cold!” There was quite a bit of admiration in his voice, as if his little grammy could be an assassin—just neutralize the target and walk away. “She looked like a robot.”
This is not the first time my mom has missed seeing me. A few years ago, she nearly ran me off the road during a run. “You didn’t see me?” I asked.
“There are so many runners these days,” she said. “How can I tell you all apart?”
“Because I’m your daughter? A tall brunette with glasses wearing a Yankees hat and a firefighting t-shirt running with a black dog who looks hauntingly like Willow because she is Willow? No? Nothing? Didn’t ring any bells?”
Another time, I was Christmas shopping at a mall and spotted a beloved little figure clutching her purse and bags. “Mom!” I called. Nothing. “Ma! Ma!” Nope. “Noel!” I yelled. Still nothing. So I ran over to her, about fifty feet, the whole time laughing and saying, “Mom! It’s me, your child!” She was oblivious until I touched her shoulder. “Jesus, Kristan, what are you doing here?” she yelped, clutching her purchases a little closer, as if I was going to mug her. (I wasn’t. Not that time.)
I’ll take it.