I am not my mother.

My youngest son has adopted his father’s protectiveness. But he used it in an inappropriate manner.

Yesterday I was up and moving around. I did one or two things that probably wouldn’t have been recommended, but nothing hurt and I was bored. (Oh, the glory of boredom! It’s a sure indicator of recovery.)

And he told me, “I don’t want you to be sick like grandma.”

I’m not sick. (Well, okay, the virus and the infection do make me sick.) But my biggest problem is that I’m recovering from the equivalent of three major surgeries. (See my last post before this one.)

I think, in deference to all that necessary, unnecessary, and unfortunately needed cutting, I should be allowed to walk funny, sit funny, and need help for a few weeks.

Without being told that they don’t want me to be my 150-lbs overweight bipolar mother in 16 years.

Especially since my mother was already 150+ lbs overweight when I was married. And I am older now than my mother was when I was married. And I’ve never been anywhere near as overweight as my mother. And I am not bipolar. So the chances of me morphing into my mother, since I haven’t yet, are slim to none.

The reason they say this is that my mother doesn’t follow her drs’ guidelines. (Which seem to consist of taking lots of medicines and staying in bed.)

Yes, my mother doesn’t “mind.” She doesn’t keep the strictures of her drs. She says that she wouldn’t have much of a life if she did. (And she is right.)

She does take her medicines. I think there are 45 now.

So, wear high heels and move around as much as you can, Momma. At least when you go out it won’t be a snuffed candle but a bonfire bearing you away.