Army nurse

A funny thing about my whole Cherry Ames obsession. Now that I'm ragging on my mom I have to write it down. While I was sick, I had one of those fantasies that often haunt me in a stressful situation. (I was also at times just thinking "I want my mommy!" and imagining the angelic version of my mom, bearing a tray and ginger ale and a cool hand on my brow.)

In this one, I am a bit older and my mom has suddenly become decrepit. She is stuck in bed for some reason and is terrified and fretful and possibly also in pain. But I know just what to do. I know that she wants everything Just So, not because she is a nagging bitch, but because she is uncomfortable if it isn't. So I do it all for her perfectly.

Her bed has nice clean sheets and I make the bed with hospital corners. From reading Cherry Ames so many times, I know how to change the sheets on a bed with the person still in it. I change the sheets every day if she wants it. I bring her nice food on an attractive tray that I have fixed up with a little vase with flowers. I reassure her that my kitchen is sparkling clean and i have ajaxed everything and sanitized the dishes the way she would do it if she could. The food is all just what she likes to eat and I offer her choices. There are prunes. There is Raisin Bran. There are canteloupes. I ask her to find wonderful recipes out of "Lite n Easy" magazine and I cook them. The coffee is lukewarm, as she prefers it. As much as possible she can control the food - there is a sugar bowl and everything. I check like a good waitress to make sure everything is okay and to see if she might need something extra that I've forgotten. I clear all the dishes away and wash them immediately.

I provide music, movies and books that she would like --- not that I like, but crappy romance novels that I know she wants. I offer distraction and service regularly. I leave her to herself but keep checking to make sure she is okay. Possibly I ask her advice, tactfully flatter her, or comb her hair in some attractive new way and adjust the lacy, flowing sleeves of her bedjacket (Cherry Ames and countless other pukey girls from those novels always do this.) I bring happy smiling children to visit her and then whisk them away when she appears careworn. Possibly she gets better, or, in the fantasy, just remains there forever.

Meanwhile, somehow I manage to have a perfectly fulfilling life in addition to all this.

This perfect care pays her back for every nice thing and every shitty thing she has ever done for me.