Maj comes to find me in the back yard. I am sitting on the deck drinking coffee and eating frozen blueberries. I offer the small bowl of berries to Maj, “Want one?”
She shudders, “They only taste good if you warm them up first.”
“Fine. There’s a big bag of them in the freezer. You want to warm some up for yourself?”
“Alright,” she walks to the door and then pauses, turns back, “Should I warm them in the microwave?”
“That will work.”
“What size dish should I use?”
“Smallish.”
“Very helpful, Mother.” She disappears for a few seconds and then leans out the door holding a bowl, “Will this do?”
“Nope.”
“You are so annoying! This is a smallish bowl. I asked you what sort of bowl I should use and you said smallish and this is a smallish bowl but somehow it is not satisfactory. What is wrong with this bowl?”
“You can’t microwave metal.”
“What? Oh yeah. I knew that, Mother.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She narrates loudly from the kitchen, “OK, a smallish plastic bowl because the microwave magic turns demonic where metal is concerned and then open the bag of blueberries and pour some in the bowl not too many but not too few because I do not want to go through this hassle again alright that looks perfect and then reseal the bag reseal the bag reseal the bag RESEAL THE BAG . . . LISTEN BAG I WILL NOT BE UNDONE BY YOU . . . SEAL YOUR LIPS AS IF TO HOLD IN THE SECRETS OF YOUR BAD BEHAVIOR . . . RIGHT THIS INSTANT, BAG . . . OH THIS WILL NOT DO . . . MOTHER! This bag won’t reclose, Mother. I have asked it politely to bring its seams together, and it refuses. I have pressed with my fingers and I have pressed with my palms and now I have a pressing need to rip this recalcitrant plastic fake zippy bag apart and fling blueberries throughout the house. HELP ME, MOTHER!”
“Bring it out here.”
She walks to where I am and hands me the bag, and I zip it up, “Recalcitrant, Maj?”
“What have we discussed, Mother? If it’s not a word, say so . . . but if it is a word and I used it correctly, stop expressing astonishment that I have the power of speech.” She takes the bag from my hands, “Thank you, Mother. Crisis averted. There was very nearly a storm of blueberries.” She goes back into the house, “How long should I cook these blueberries?”
“Hmmm . . . maybe 10 seconds?”
“Mother, what is the point of being able to turn to you for advice if all you dispense is garble?”
“Sweetie, my advice is ten seconds, but you do what you want.”
“Fine. I will.”
She is back in a moment, empty-handed. I stare at her for a few seconds, “So what’s up with the blueberries?”
“Mother, try to control your control-freakishness. I am 13 and perfectly capable of warming some blueberries.”
“Alright.”
Another minute passes, “Ummm, Maj?”
“Mother, have some faith in my abilities! LET GO OF MY SPIRIT, MOTHER! ENOUGH WITH YOUR MEDDLING!”
“Geez. Cranky much?”
“I am not cranky. I am a smallish woman waiting for a smallish bowl of blueberries and I am not to be trifled!”
“With.”
“What?”
“Trifled with . . . you don’t usually say that you have been trifled . . . trifled with.”
“But isn’t with one of those preposition guys?”
“Yes, actually.”
“So, what? I am supposed to say what, exactly? I am a smallish woman waiting for a smallish bowl of blueberries with whom you shall not trifle . . ??”
“I’m sorry I said anything.”
“INDEED YOU SHOULD BE, MOTHER. I ASKED THAT YOU NOT TRIFLE ME, AND YOU CORRECT MY USE OF THE WORD TRIFLE, A CORRECTION WHICH IS ITSELF TRIFLING. WELL DONE.”
“Maj, how long have you been home from school?”
“Like ten minutes.”
“I need a nap.”
“Very funny, Mother. I think my blueberries are done. Stay here . . . we need to daughter-parent bond some more. DO NOT TRY TO EVADE THE BONDING!”
“Whatever.”
“AIAIAIAIAIAEEEEEEE! THEY ARE BOILING AND SPITTING IN A BUBBLY CAULDRON DOOM! AIIAEEEEEEEEEE!”
“Be careful if they are hot.”
“BE CAREFUL IF THEY ARE HOT? WHAT DID YOU NOT UNDERSTAND OF THE PHRASE BUBBLY CAULDRON DOOM, EXACTLY?”
“Seriously, Maj?”
“I HAVE MADE SOUP.” Her voice grows more thoughtful, “Well, let’s just imagine that I intended to make blueberry soup. I’ll just get a spoon and I will make the best of this situation because it’s not like I am the sort to get all bent out of shape when things do not go my way blueberry soup is probably an actual thing people eat sometimes and so I will eat it . . . Let me just get some oven mitts and dump it into another bowl that will not rip my fingerprints from my hands with its fiery hotness.” She reappears at the back door, bowl in hand, “MOTHER, WHY DID YOU ALLOW YOUR DAUGHTER TO MAKE BLUEBERRY SOUP? I HOPE YOU ARE CHAGRINNED AND GUILT-RIDDEN.”
She sits down and sips at her soup as a text come in on my phone from Kallan. In between soup-sips, she quizzes me, “Is that Kallan? What does Kallan want?”
I ignore her.
“What is Kallan saying? Tell her to come straight home from school, Mother.”
I ignore her.
“Stop texting with Kallan and address the Maj at hand, Mother.”
“Maj, give me a minute.”
“What time is it? Kallan should already be on the bus. Tell that child to get her booty on the bus. What is she saying? What does she want? Say no . . . whatever it is, say no. Refuse to comply with her demands, Mother. THWART THE CHILD!”
“Maj, hush. I’m talking to your sister.”
“Really? Texting consumes all of your intellectual effort? You are quite the multi-tasker, Mother. What is she saying? What is she doing? What lies is she telling you? I hope you are skeptical, Mother. That’s my best advice when dealing with Kallan . . . BE SKEPTICAL.”
I tap a few more words, and then I turn to Maj, “Your sister is going to her friend’s house and she’ll be home in time for dinner.”
Maj stares at me, “Mother, we have discussed this. Kallan is a lawless hooligan. I promise you that whatever she told you is a lie. WHERE IS THE SKEPTICISM, MOTHER? WHERE IS THE HEALTHY MISTRUST?”
I put down my phone, “Maj, you are just going to have to trust in my parenting. Have a little faith in my mothering abilities.”
“I would have more faith in your abilities if I wasn’t eating blueberry soup.”
“Maj, you are being a pain in the . . .”
I am unable to finish my thought, because Maj suddenly flings herself from her chair and hops and flails wildly, “AIAIAIAEAEAEAEAEEEEEEE! A BEE DROPPED OUT OF THE SKY LIKE THE DEVIL’S FUZZY HAIL! HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME! WHAT DOES IT WANT? WHY IS IT HERE? AIIAIAEEAEAEAEEEEE! IT WANTS THE SOUP! THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, MOTHER!”
I take off a shoe and smack the bee. Swipe its carcass from the table.
Maj shudders, “Mother, you know I have an uneasy relationship with nature. YOU KNOW THIS AND YET YOU WOULD HAVE ME SIT OUT HERE SIPPING FROM A BOWL OF HOT BEE NECTAR!”
I finish my coffee and stand up, “Well, I would say this little bonding session has gone quite well. Excellent daughtering, Maj.”
“See, Mother . . . When you use that tone, I suspect sarcasm.”
Snort.
