Last week the Wescotts were stricken with illness. Brantley and I had strep throat while Luke battled a double ear infection. After a couple of days, Brantley went back to work while I struggled to take care of Luke and myself. Frustrated, sick and exhausted I did the only thing left to do. I picked up the phone and called my mom.
Ladies and gentleman, meet Joyce. She’s an amazing wife and mother who loves grandbabies like a crack head loves an eight ball. Her two biggest fears are chickens and quicksand, and she knows all the words to the Hillshire Farms meat song. With the ability to turn anything into a song, you should hear her rendition of, “please take the trash out to the street, honey,” to the tune of “What ya Gonna do When the Well Runs Dry?” She would give away her last dime and if you ever catch her topless, cut her some slack. She most likely just gave someone the shirt off her back.
By trade, my mom is a reading coach at a public school in Alabama. She has lots of students and lots of responsibilities, but within minutes of my phone call she had pushed everything aside, put her life on hold, and was headed to Tennessee.
As soon as she arrived she was doing our laundry, walking our dog, and cooking our meth. She was a saint sent to save me from my own demise. I’ve always been thankful for her, but there was something about this act of selfless maternal heroism that left me full of something and this time, instead of crap, it was pride and inspiration. I hope to one day return the favor.
My mom is a special and unique lady. She definitely can’t hold her wine and she sometimes laughs until she pees, but I wouldn’t have her any other way. To the students who missed her last week while she took care of us, I say get over it. She’s my mom. Get your own.