My mother was a worrier. No. She was more than that.
She was a "this is going to kill you" kind of person.

So, I guess in some ways I was the lightest burden.

I didn't get strep throat. I didn't get a severe ear infection.

I didn't have measles and pneumonia at the same time.

I didn't have curvature of the spine.

No. Not me. I was a tomboy. I was tough and up
to the challenge.

Which may have made me the greatest burden.

Falling out of the pine tree in the backyard. My foot
caught in the spokes of Mary's wheels. My arm
cut and bleeding profusely from the coke bottle
that broke in my bike basket.

I was the run-to-the-ER kid. For stitches
and such.

It was easier for her to comfort the children
who had no choice in their discomfort.

I fought hard to not be my mom when I had
my own children.

Broken wrist.

"It's ok, honey, the doctor is going to take care
of it."

Stitches in the chin. Papoose to hold down a crying,
arms-flailing child.

"Baby, listen to Mommy. I am right
here and the doctor is going to take good care of you."

So steady and inquisitive and concerned (but not worried)
when the baseball bat hit one of them in the head
and knocked them out and we end up in ER for X-rays.

Fighting always to not be like her. The worrier. The guilty
one. The blameless filled with blame.

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